Meet Me at Midnight
by Jilsen
Summary: Nancy, Frank, and Joe have opened their own detective agency. Now, they need a big case, one that will establish them as a legit detective agency. And they get it with explosive results.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew or any related characters. My use of the characters is intended for entertainment purposes only. Each character will be treated with respect and integrity._

_A/N: The characters are older. Nancy and Frank are 29. Joe is 28. The first few paragraphs give you their back-stories. Frank and Nancy are a couple. My story "The Beach" gives more information on Frank and Callie's relationship and why they split._

_This story is more thriller, action oriented. There is some romance, but it doesn't drive the story._

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Nancy was on her third cup of coffee. Too much coffee and she knew it. Blame it on the new business. Four months ago she'd opened a detective agency with brothers Frank and Joe Hardy. The trio had met a year ago when a case the brothers were working brought them to Chicago. Nancy, a twenty-eight year old rookie detective, happened to be working the same case as the boys, a missing woman case. The three teamed up, worked the case, and solved it.

Nancy was attracted to Frank, the older brother. His looks got her attention, his intellect and drive kept it. Frank's last night in town, they hit a bar. Joe was already on his way home on a non-stop flight to New York. Frank had decided to stay an extra night in Chicago to try and get to know this woman he found so fascinating. He and Nancy hadn't spent any time alone and he wanted – needed – a chance to delve beyond the physical attraction.

The bar had been busy that Friday night. They snagged a quiet booth in the back and ordered drinks. A beer for him, a margarita for her. He sat across from her and studied her face. She was attractive, not drop dead gorgeous or stunningly beautiful, but she had something most women didn't – self-confidence and a rapid-fire analytical mind. There weren't many who could challenge him on an intellectual level.

The waitress brought their drinks and small talk ensued. A rehash of the case, then Frank pushed the table's candle aside, put his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. "You never did tell me about your boyfriend."

Nancy grinned and shook her head, reddish blonde tresses swung around her face. "There's no boyfriend."

Frank smiled and laid on the charm. "Good. That means I don't have to kill anybody."

That caused her to laughed. An open, honest laugh that Frank liked.

She held his gaze, her dark blue eyes twinkling in the flickering candlelight. Frank liked that, too.

She licked salt from the rim of her glass and sipped. Her focus stayed on him though. "What about you? Girlfriend?"

The question hit hard, something he hadn't expected, and he looked away. She hadn't meant to hurt him of course and he wondered if she'd seen the pain. After a moment, his eyes came back to hers. His voice was thick, "No, no girlfriend. I was married once, but .. well, that ended four years ago."

"You didn't kill anybody, did you?" Her way to lightning the mood. She'd seen the hurt.

He grinned and relaxed. He looked down at the table then back at her. "No. Not that I didn't think about it though."

They both laughed.

The night ended with a long good-bye kiss outside his hotel, the two of them pressed up against the side of her car. They made a promise to keep in touch.

Miles and distance might separate them, but daily e-mails and weekly phone kept them connected. Those worked for a while, but ultimately they weren't enough. Not for Frank. E-mails and phone calls were nice, but physical contact was so much better. That kiss outside his hotel had played through his mind so many times. That kiss had held a lot of promise.

Frank lived in Bayport, New York, eight hundred forty miles from Nancy's hometown of River Heights, Illinois. To Frank's way of thinking that was eight hundred forty miles too many. Solution? Start their own detective agency.

Nancy had voiced the desire on more than one occasion in their e-mails and phone calls. Five years on the Chicago PD wasn't cutting it for her anymore. Not even as a detective. She'd come to realize she was a small town girl at heart. The big city was eating her alive, striping away her identity, she was just another detective in a city full of them. She wanted to return to her roots, get back home to her widowed father and longtime housekeeper Hannah Gruen.

When Frank suggested they start their own agency she'd agreed instantly. The idea of being her own boss, working the cases she chose and not the next one in line was immensely appealing. Having Frank close, and as a partner, made the idea all the more appealing.

River Heights was chosen as the place to base their business because of its proximity to Chicago. Some big cases might come their way, but at the same time they weren't in direct competition with the thousands of other detective agencies in the Windy City.

Frank's brother, Joe, joined them, but for different reasons. At nineteen, he'd lost his girlfriend in a fiery car bomb meant for him. That single event propelled his life in an unexpected direction. At his parents' urging, he'd gone to college, but with disastrous results. Unable to focus or concentration, and still dealing with his grief, he dropped out and enlisted in the army. It proved to be a good decision. He became a MP (military police). He loved the physical training, experience, and travel. The army kept him on the go, confronted with ever-changing situations and living in the moment, the place he liked to live. Eighteen months ago, after seven years in the army, he'd said good-bye and returned home to partner with his brother at their father's detective agency.

Frank, older by one year, finished college then surprised his family by following his brother's example and joining the army. Frank had a fierce desire to prove himself, make it on his own, and not live in his father's shadow. Five years in the army, three as a MP and two as a Special Agent in the army's prestigious Criminal Investigation Division let him do just that. Two years ago he'd called his brother, told him he was getting out of the army and going home with plans to eventually start his own agency. When the time came he hoped his brother would be by his side.

The time came four months ago and Joe had been there as promised.

_The Endeavor Detective Agency._

The words were stenciled on the glass front door in elegant script_. In association with the Hardy Detective Agency_ came after in small print. The office, housed in a charming red-brick building two streets from downtown, was nestled between an insurance office and a travel agency, the ideal location for a fledgling detective agency.

_Farmers_, the insurance office next door, had provided the detectives a steady flow of jobs since they'd opened. The jobs dealt mainly with car accident claims, on-the-job accidents, insurance claims, and minor vandalism cases, but the detectives weren't ones to quibble, the jobs helped them pay the rent.

Nancy poured herself _half_ a cup of coffee – time to cut down on the caffeine – and sat at her desk, a large wooden affair with a cushy red swivel chair. The desk, situated front and center in the office, faced the large plate glass window overlooking the street.

Nancy took a sip of her coffee and poked at the papers on her desk. She'd just finished investigating a car accident for _Farmers_. Nothing more to do except type up the report something she wasn't in the mood for at the moment. She had the office all to herself and rather enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Frank was out interviewing witnesses in yet another accident claim. Joe was working a missing teen case. His search had taken him two hours northeast to Chicago. Around ten that morning, Joe had called to report the missing teen found and in his custody. The kid had spent the past week moving from friend to friend and place to place nicely evading Joe. But the cat and mouse game grew old for the teen's so-called friends and one finally ratted him out.

Shortly before one o'clock, Joe had handed the boy over to his stressed-out angry parents. Presently, he was headed back to the office and Nancy expected him anytime.

She sipped her coffee and poked at the papers again. The report wasn't going to type its self.

Sit back, finish your coffee, and then type up the report, she told herself.

Cup in hand, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet on the desk. She had a perfect view of the Italian diner across the street. Family owned and operated, _Ragazzi's s_erved lunch and dinner seven days a week. The prices were reasonable and the food delicious. Nancy, Frank, and Joe were regular customers.

It was late afternoon on a gorgeous spring day. The temperature was in the high sixties and people were taking advantage of the mild weather by eating outside on _Ragazzi's_ fenced-in patio. Almost every umbrella-topped table was occupied. One table in particular drew Nancy's attention. A young woman sat alone sipping a drink. A large black handbag accompanied the woman. So large, it had a chair of its own.

Nancy noticed the woman's quick glances at fellow diners. The long searching looks up and down the street. The woman kept watch on the black handbag, too.

Surveillance, Nancy thought, and wondered why.

The woman finished her drink, pulled the handbag onto her lap, withdrew some cash, and placed it on the table. She stood, glanced around, then headed across the street. Her long, sure strides reminded Nancy of a thoroughbred racehorse. A mane of dark brown hair bounced on the woman's shoulders as she headed for the door of the _Endeavor Detective Agency_.

Nancy yanked her feet off the desk and sat up. A minute later the woman entered the office. The atmosphere changed in an instant. The air crackled with electricity.

Something told Nancy this was their first big case, the one that would establish the _Endeavor_ as a legitimate detective agency. Nancy rose to greet the woman.

True to form, the woman quickly took stock of her surroundings, eyes darting around the office. What she thought of the place she kept to herself.

At last, beautiful amber colored eyes came to rest on Nancy. "And you are?" the woman said.

Odd question Nancy thought with a whiff of resentment. The woman had come into _her_ office, shouldn't she be introducing herself to Nancy?

Nancy hid her frown and extended a hand. "Nancy Drew, private investigator."

"Oh." The woman ignored the proffered hand.

Nancy couldn't tell if the 'oh' was one of disbelief, disappointment, or something else entirely. She decided to ignore it. She drew back her hand and tried the direct approach. "How can I help you? Miss …"

"Romanoff. Tasha Romanoff."

"Perhaps you'd like a seat?" Nancy motioned to a set of black wingback chairs in front of her desk.

"Oh." The woman glanced at the chairs, chose one, and sat. She smoothed down her tailored black jacket and adjusted the collar of her blue silk blouse.

Restless, Nancy thought as she sat in her red swivel chair. She hoped Miss Romanoff had a larger vocabulary than what she'd displayed so far otherwise this was going to be a very short conversation.

Tasha Romanoff got right to the point. "I need protection. Do you provide that?"

Nancy detected the slightest hint of a Russian accent. "We can. What makes you think you need protection?"

"Oh, it's not for me." Tasha crossed a shapely pair of legs encased in black jeans and adjusted the black bag resting on her lap.

"Oh?" Nancy felt a small measure of satisfaction in using that word.

Tasha fumbled in the black bag. The top of her blue silk blouse fell open revealing a nice bit of cleavage and a ruby studded cross. Nancy was no jewelry expert, but with the way the light glinted off those rubies she thought they were the real thing.

Tasha withdrew a large envelope from the handbag. "This. This needs protection." She handed the envelope to Nancy.

The envelope was large and heavy, the type with bubble wrap inside. It was twelve by eighteen inches long and about eight inches high. "What's inside?" Nancy hefted the envelope. It wasn't unduly heavy, but the contents were substantial.

"I .. I can't tell you." Genuine fear shone on Tasha's face and she clutched the ruby cross as if it were a talisman.

Trying to ward off evil spirits? Nancy thought as she laid the envelope on the edge of the desk closest to Miss Romanoff.

"Please," Tasha insisted, a touch of panic in her voice. She pushed the envelope toward Nancy. "If anything happens to me you must open the envelope. There are instructions inside."

Nancy frowned. "Let me make sure I understand. You want to hire our agency to protect – this?" She pointed at the envelope.

Tasha nodded and ran a hand through her sleek mahogany-colored hair.

Nancy admired Tasha's hair. Her blonde tresses, shimmering with copper highlights, seemed brassy and dull in comparison. Nancy sighed and wrenched her focus back to the envelope. "Why not use a safe deposit box at a bank? It would be perfectly safe there."

"I thought of that, but .. well, that would require I have a key. If someone gets to me then they can get to the key .. and the envelope. That is not safe enough. If I don't have the envelope and I don't know where it is then I cannot possibly give it up. Nothing they can do to me – nothing at all – can force me to reveal its whereabouts."

Nancy wondered who 'they' were. She sensed real danger surrounding Tasha. Perhaps the _Endeavor_ shouldn't take this case.

Tasha picked up on Nancy's concern and said, "Please Miss Drew, you are my last chance. No one knows I'm here. I've been very careful and I will make it worth your while." She reached into the handbag, withdrew a stack of bills, and placed them on the desk with a firm thud. "Fifty thousand dollars. If that is not enough …"

Nancy's eyes widened and she stifled a gasp. "It's .. it's plenty. Umm, it appears money is not a problem."

"No, it is not," Tasha assured her.

"Then Miss Romanoff, I have to ask, if you have the financial resources to hire anybody you want, why come to this agency? We're brand new, relatively unknown, and don't have all the specialized personnel or equipment a large agency could offer you."

Tasha pulled her chair closer to Nancy's desk. "You see Miss Drew _that_ is precisely why I have come to you."

Nancy's brows knit together in confusion. Tasha explained, "That's what _they_ are expecting me to do. Go to a big agency, hire lots of bodyguards, cower in a corner always wondering where they are and when they will strike." Tasha sat up a little straighter, her amber eyes blazing. "I do not cower Miss Drew. Besides, your advertisement says you are associated with the famous _Hardy Detective Agency_."

"True," Nancy said hesitantly. She pushed a strand of hair behind an ear and wondered what was in that envelope, and who Miss Tasha Romanoff really was, and who she was afraid of?

"So, I think if you need more personnel or equipment as you say, you can get it most discreetly." Tasha sounded more confident than Nancy felt.

Nancy paused. She didn't want to go running to the _Hardy Detective Agency_, not on their first big case. "Of course, if we needed assistance we could contact the _Hardy Agency_, but …"

Tasha leaned forward and Nancy caught sight of the ruby cross again. "Please. I beg of you," Tasha said. "You really are my last chance."

Before Nancy could respond the back door opened. It was hidden behind a staircase that led to an upstairs loft apartment. In tromped Joe. His hair – short, blond, and wavy – looked like he had driven all the way from Chicago with the windows down. He saw the woman parked in front of Nancy's desk and gave a polite nod.

Nancy rose and did the introductions. "Miss Romanoff this is Joe Hardy one of the _Endeavor's_ private investigators."

Tasha got to her feet. "Hardy? Are you related to the owner of the _Hardy Detective Agency_?"

"Yes," Joe said approaching the woman. He got the distinct impression a handshake wasn't welcome so he didn't offer his hand. "I'm the younger son." He mentally sized up the woman, about the same age as him, late twenties, classy, nice clothes, and attractive.

Tasha turned to Nancy. "Now I am confident you can take my case."

Joe looked to Nancy for an explanation.

"Miss Romanoff wants to hire us to protect this." Nancy indicated the envelope lying on her desk.

Joe nodded at the envelope. "That? For how long?" He also noticed the stack of money wrapped in a wide white band lying next to the envelope.

Nancy saw the direction of Joe's gaze and said, "Miss Romanoff will pay us fifty thousand dollars to guard the envelope."

Joe's eyebrows shot up. "That's a lot of money." He turned to Tasha with new interest.

"It is." Tasha squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "But what is inside that envelope is very important. So, will you take the case?" She waited for an answer.

Joe shrugged. "I don't see why not. How long do you need us to guard the envelope?"

Tasha took a shallow breath and a flicker of fear passed over her face. "I'm not sure. Perhaps a week – maybe more. And … if anything happens to me then you must open the envelope and follow the instructions inside."

Sounds easy Joe thought and asked, "And how will we know if something happens to you?" He studied Tasha's face. Fear and determination shone in her eyes. He'd noticed the Russian accent, too. She hid it well, but certain words gave her away.

Nancy broke in, "We'll need Miss Romanoff to sign a contract and provide us all her contact information, phone number, address, etcetera …" To Tasha she said, "We will check-in with you once a week."

"Of course." Tasha stiffened then sat.

Nancy got out the necessary paperwork. Joe excused himself and headed to the kitchen counter behind Nancy's desk. He felt Tasha's eyes follow him appraising his broad backside. He was six feet tall and weighed two hundred ten pounds, most of it muscle, so there was plenty to appraise. He stood at the counter wondering what he wanted – coffee, soda, or water? The drive from Chicago had been long and hot and he was thirsty. He settled on water. He retrieved a bottled water from the small fridge under the counter. As he twisted the cap Nancy came up beside him. Their eyes met – both blue, both vivid. She handed him a note then returned to her desk and Tasha.

Joe sipped the water and read the handwritten note, Nancy's handwriting, _When Tasha leaves, follow her_.

Joe slipped the note into his pants pocket and finished his water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tossed the empty bottle in the trash basket and said, "Excuse me ladies."

He walked past Nancy's desk and to his room. Frank had claimed most of the upstairs loft as his domain. That left Joe the storage room on the ground floor. If one entered the office by the front door Joe's room was to the left. He had turned the ten by twelve foot space into a bedroom. It wasn't much to look at, but Joe didn't need much. A double bed was pushed up against one wall and a bookcase (filled with trophies and knickknacks and not many books) stood along the wall opposite the bed. Some low shelves Joe had built, ran along the brick wall that faced the street. Posters and pictures brought the remaining three gray walls to life and a thick shag rug warmed the cement floor. One small window, set high on the brick wall, provided light and air.

This was a luxury suite compared to some of the quarters Joe had lived in during his seven years in the army.

He tugged on a black leather bomber jacket and pulled on a black baseball cap. The cap clashed with the jacket but Joe wasn't concerned with style. The cap's function was to hide his blond hair. He grabbed a small black kit off the low shelves and stuffed it into his jacket pocket then leaned against the bedroom door and waited. He heard Nancy saying good-bye to Tasha. After Tasha exited through the front door of the office Joe stepped out of his room.

Nancy was waiting for him. She held up a piece of paper. "Here's the address Miss Romanoff gave."

Joe took the paper. "Okay, let's see if it's the real thing." He headed to the back door and to his truck parked in the alley behind the office. Moments later he was following Tasha's gray Volkswagen Jetta. The address Tasha had given was for a new development of condos in an upscale neighborhood.

Joe flipped down the truck's visor and followed Tasha through the late afternoon traffic wondering who she was and what secrets the envelope held.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you everyone for the warm welcome back and the reviews. _

_Special Note: Rigazzi's is a real restaurant. Just for fun, I will post Nancy, Frank, and Joe's favorite dishes at the end of a chapter (not this one). _

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

Tasha Romanoff never stayed in one place for very long. Over the past three years she had worked her way around the globe – always on the run – always one step ahead of her enemies. She had no home. Long ago she'd had a home, but that was in a much happier time in her life – her childhood. Now, when she stopped to think about her life, really think about it, it felt as if all those happy childhood memories belonged to someone else.

Everything was different now and a home was out of the question. A home gave anyone looking for her a starting point. So she lived in hotels, the occasional rented house, and condos – whatever was available.

A condo was her preferred choice. They were more private than hotels and had more than one exit – a huge selling feature. Tasha did not relish sleeping where she could be cornered.

She pulled into the driveway of a condo in a gated community. The 'gated' part gave her an added sense of security.

Presently, Joe sat outside those gates debating how to get inside.

After considering his options he decided to park his truck in the adjoining 'un-gated' neighborhood and climb the stone wall surrounding the two communities. Once inside, he would use the GPS in his blackberry to locate Tasha's condo.

An hour later he dropped to the ground behind a shrub. He looked around, deemed it safe, and ambled out of the gully where he had landed and onto the sidewalk.

Nice neighborhood, he thought. Pristine condos lined the streets. Front yards were artfully decorated with low-maintenance plants, rocks, and gravel. No lawns to care for here.

Fifteen minutes later, the sun was just dipping below the horizon when Joe sauntered past Tasha's condo. The cover of darkness would serve him well. Tasha's ubiquitous two-story condo was like every other condo on the street – white. A double garage took up most of the front and a wide sidewalk led to a white front door. A large, rectangular, frosted window dominated the center of the door. Light glowed from the door's window and a downstairs window.

Joe checked the street and sidewalks. No one around. A low wall separated Tasha's condo from her neighbor on the right. Joe scaled the wall in one easy leap and landed on the other side with a soft thud. Like a thief in the night he crept along the wall of the condo to the back and came to a small patio. A thin beam of light poured through a slit in the drapes covering a set of French doors. The slit offered him a narrow view of a dining area and kitchen and beyond that a staircase.

Movement caught his eye and he took cover behind a wrought-iron chair on the patio. The chair, one of four around a wrought-iron table, was in the darkest part of the patio. Stretching his neck Joe saw Tasha walk into the kitchen. He moved to the left for a better view, balanced on one knee with one hand on the chair, he saw Tasha at the sink filling a tea kettle. She placed the kettle on the stove then sat at the dining room table in front of a laptop computer and began typing.

Joe shifted into a more comfortable position and watched.

The kettle must have whistled. Tasha got up, disappeared for a few minutes then returned with a steaming cup. She placed the cup on the table and frowned at the computer.

Joe thought he saw a trace of apprehension on her face.

Although the sound was muffled by the French doors, Joe heard the distinctive whirl and hum of a printer. Tasha slipped out of sight for a moment then returned with a sheet of paper. She stared at it a long while before laying it on the table. She picked up the steaming cup and began pacing, appearing and disappearing from view.

After another disappearance she returned without the cup and sat at the computer.

More typing. More reading. Joe heard the hum of the printer again and Tasha promptly disappeared. She soon reappeared with a new sheet of paper, laid it on the table next to the first one and placed her hands on the back of the chair and studied both papers.

Joe ran a hand down his face wondering what was on the papers that was so interesting. He'd sure like a look at them.

Tasha startled him when she jerked her head toward the French doors. Had he made a sound? Alerted her to his presence? She moved to the doors, pushed the drapes aside, and gazed into the night. He froze behind the chair holding his breath. Finally, she turned and walked away. Joe let out a relieved breath when she headed upstairs.

Moments later light spilled from an upstairs window directly above him. With Tasha out of sight he crept to the French doors and peered at the papers on the table. He couldn't read them from this distance or angle. The only way to look at them was to break in. Not the wisest course of action, but certainly the most direct. And Joe usually favored the most direct course when given a choice.

He placed his hands on either side of his eyes, put his face close to the glass, and scanned the kitchen and dining room searching for an alarm system. No noticeable boxes or wires hung on the walls. He stepped back and looked at the door handle. Maybe it was unlocked. Doubtful, but possible. If there was an alarm system, it will go off the second he pressed the handle. That's okay, he thought, he could scale the wall and be long gone before a security team arrived.

He lightly touched the handle then pressed down. Nothing. No alarm, but the door was securely locked. Not a problem, he'd had the good sense to bring his lock pick tools. He withdrew the small black kit from his jacket pocket and laid it on the cement next to his feet. There were two locks to pick; the basic easy lock on the bottom and a deadbolt above it.

He flexed his fingers and crouched beside the door. He selected a tension wrench and inserted it into the lower portion of the bottom keyhole. It slid in easily. Next, he turned the wrench in the direction a key would normally turn and held it in place while he inserted a pick into the top portion of the keyhole. Now it was just a matter of using the pick to feel his way through each individual pin. Most locks have four or five pins. Joe worked his way through the pins (four in this lock) setting each one in place while simultaneously applying pressure to the tension wrench. Once all the pins were in place he turned the wrench like a key and unlocked the bottom lock.

Before working on the deadbolt he checked the upstairs window. Still lit and he heard the faint sound of running water. Hopefully, Tasha was taking a shower or a bath – and preferably a long one – that would give him all the time he needed to get in and out.

Two minutes later Joe pressed the handle down and opened the door. Inside he was greeted by a sea of white. White walls, white countertops, white cabinets, white chairs, and a white tiled floor that lead to off-white carpeting in the living room. The all-white décor gave Joe a chill and an involuntary shiver rippled up his spine.

He stood stock-still listening. The water was still running upstairs which was good. He quickly scanned the dining room, kitchen, and living room. No personal photos on the walls or tables. No personal items of any kind anywhere. The place was as cold and sterile as a hospital.

He turned his attention to the papers lying side by side on the table. One was a MapQuest printout showing the best route to the Woodland Mall. It gave an estimated driving time of forty minutes. Joe suppressed a snicker. Forty minutes if you followed the posted speed limits, which he usually didn't.

He looked at the other paper – an e-mail sent from a public terminal. It read: _Meet me at midnight – Wednesday at the Woodland Mall. Bring what I want. I know you have it_.

The sender's name was not given, but Joe figured Tasha knew exactly who'd sent the e-mail and he had a hunch she was going to meet them tonight.

But, what did the sender want? The envelope? Tasha had been adamant about protecting it.

Joe suddenly realized the water had stopped running. Had it _just_ stopped, or had it been a few minutes? He wasn't sure.

Time to go.

He quickly slipped out the door locking it behind him.

Thirty minutes later he was in his truck and headed to the office. Stars dotted the night sky and a full moon hung overhead. He had his Bluetooth on and Nancy on the phone. "The address is legit," he told her. "Tasha lives there all right, but I wouldn't exactly call it living. I think she's renting the place and from the looks of it I don't think she's been there long."

"Yeah?" Nancy was at her desk. Frank was in the office, too, at his large metal desk typing up a report on an accident investigation he'd completed for _Farmers_. Nancy had filled him in on Tasha and the mysterious envelope. When she said the call was from Joe, Frank had stopped typing and given Nancy his undivided attention.

"Yeah," Joe said, "there's no personal stuff anywhere. You know, no family photos, no pictures of friends, nothing. I tell you, the place is sterile. I get the feeling she doesn't expect to be there long."

"Well, I'm impressed," Nancy said as Frank leaned against her desk and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "How'd you get all that information? You peek in all the windows?"

"Well, um, no," Joe hedged.

"What do you mean? Did you go inside?" Nancy frowned.

Frank narrowed his eyes and lowered his dark head. How he wished he could hear both sides of this conversation.

Joe slowed to make a right turn. "Well, um, yeah .. sorta."

"Sorta? What does that mean? Either you went inside or you didn't."

Joe was on a straight away again and picked up speed. "Okay, here's the deal – I broke in."

"What? Joe, don't tell me —"

Frank glared at Nancy his dark brows making a prominent V. What had his brother done this time?

"Now stop right there Nan," Joe said stopping at a red light. "I sense a 'breaking and entering lecture' coming on and I'm definitely not in the mood for one of those, besides there's a more important issue here. It looks like our client may be in serious trouble." He told Nancy about the e-mail and the MapQuest printout. "So guess where I'm going to be at midnight tonight?"

"The Woodland Mall," Nancy said and looked at Frank. "And Frank and I will be there, too."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The voice on the phone spoke in Russian. "I forbid you to go. Tasha? Are you listening to me?"

"Of course," she mumbled in Russian, one hand curled into a tight fist in the pocket of her bathrobe as she paced the bedroom of the condo talking on her cell phone. She spied a turquoise turtleneck in the closet and yanked it off the shelf and tossed it on the bed.

"I can tell by your voice you are _not_ listening to me. You are going to do this anyway aren't you?" The voice held anger, but it was motivated by genuine love and affection and Tasha knew that.

"Yes!" she responded hotly in spite of herself. "You can't tell me what to do little brother. I make my own decisions. Dimitri, you of all people know that everything I do – have done – has been for the family. I am willing to make this sacrifice. I am doing this for you – for all of us."

Dimitri ran a hand down his weary face. His eyes, the same amber color as his sister's, pinched shut in defeat and sorrow. "Tasha, the only thing I want you to do, is to stop running. Please, please meet me. We must face our enemies together – not alone. Together we are stronger. You know this." The exasperation he felt flowed into his words and weighed them down.

Tasha grabbed a pair of jeans from the closet and tossed them on the bed. "Dimitri, you know I love you with all my heart, but I am determined to do whatever it takes to protect you and our family." She swallowed over the lump forming in her throat. "I'll .. I'll call you soon." She didn't give him a chance to respond. She ended the call and put the phone on mute.

She loved her brother. She loved her family. It had been a long time since she'd seen any of them. The anger she felt at the situation bubbled up and she threw the phone at the headboard. It hit the wood with a loud _whack,_ bounced off, and landed on the bedspread.

Tasha fanned her face with her hands and paced the room. Tears threatened, but she would not give into them.

Dimitri would call back, of that she was sure, but she would not answer. Her mind was made up and nothing he could say, or do, would dissuade her from her chosen course of action.

She had to do this. She had to be strong. She _would_ be strong.

ND/HB … ND/HB … ND/HB

Joe ran up the stairs that led to the loft apartment above the office.

"Hey, Frank," he yelled.

Frank was in the small kitchen making a ham sandwich. "Yeah," he called over his shoulder. He'd just gotten out of the shower and his dark brown hair, short and straight, was damp.

Joe joined his brother at the kitchen counter. "When's Nancy getting here? We need to get going."

"Want one?" Frank indicated the sandwich.

"Nah, I ate while you were at your martial arts class. You were a little late getting home tonight."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I tried to end class on time, but someone had a question, and as the instructor I felt a need to stay and answer it. You know how it is." Frank put the sandwich on a plate and carried it to the small kitchen table.

Joe privately thought Frank could have put the answers on hold for one night, but then he wasn't the one knocking himself out doing two classes a week to earn extra money. He followed Frank to the table and plopped into a chair opposite him. "Well, we really need to get going. I want to be at the mall and in place long before Tasha and whoever else shows up."

Frank took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and glanced at the clock on the microwave on the counter. The microwave was old and dated and on Frank's list of things to replace. He swallowed and said, "It's only ten o'clock. We've got time."

"Not really," Joe countered. "We don't know what time the mystery person, or persons, will show up. They could be there now for all we know."

Frank dropped his sandwich on the plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "This whole thing could be a wild goose chase for all we know."

"Maybe." Joe scowled. "You don't really believe that do you?"

Frank hesitated. "I'm not sure what to make of this case. Mysterious woman, mysterious package, mysterious e-mail, mysterious late night meeting .."

Joe cocked a fist. "You say mysterious one more time and I'll deck you."

Frank grinned. "Sorry. I got carried away."

Joe put his arms on the table. "Listen, you weren't here. You didn't meet Tasha. But I can tell you, something's up. She's scared. I could feel her fear. It's real. I think she's running from someone. We might have a chance to catch them tonight. And I, for one, plan on being there to protect her." Joe pushed back his chair and stood, ready to leave.

Frank got to his feet and laid a restraining hand on Joe's arm. "Okay, okay. You're right. I didn't mean to sound like I don't believe you or don't care. I do."

"Good. So?"

"So, you go ahead, get the lay of the land, and get in place. Take the west parking lot, Nancy and I will take the east one. She should be here any minute."

"Great. I'm outta here."

Joe dashed down the stairs and to his bedroom. He slipped on his shoulder holster, adjusted it, and grabbed his Beretta 92FS off the bed. It was an eight and a half inch long all metal handgun loaded with a fifteen round magazine. He checked the safety then slipped the Beretta into the holster and pulled on his leather bomber jacket. He grabbed a pair of black gloves and a black knit cap off the low shelves. The temperature had dropped to the low forties so the cap would provide warmth as well as camouflage.

In least than five minutes he was out the door and in his truck.

He pulled into the Woodland Mall at 10:40pm. There were four parking lots. He wondered in which one the meeting would take place.

The mall closed at 11:00 so there were still cars in the lots – less than forty by Joe's estimation. He drove around getting the layout firmly fixed in his mind. The main entrance came in from the south off a busy street. Joe figured the meeting wouldn't take place in the south lot – too many chances of being seen from the street. The north lot was small and backed up to a neighborhood – again, not a good candidate for a meeting.

Joe smiled. So, Frank had done some research. He'd suggested Joe take the west lot while he and Nancy took the east. Now Joe knew why. Those two lots offered space and seclusion, the very things every clandestine meeting needed.

Joe drove around some more before parking. Finally, he picked a spot in the northwest corner of the west lot near a skinny, forlorn looking tree. The tree's gnarly branches stretched skyward like witches' hands reaching for the full moon and casting eerie shadows in the gloomy light.

Joe turned his truck off and checked his watch. Eleven o'clock. He got out, laced his hands behind his head, and stretched thinking this might be a long wait. Then he hooked up his Bluetooth and phoned Frank. "I'm in place. Where you guys at?"

"Just pulled in the main entrance," Frank said. "We'll be in place in a few minutes. Seen anything suspicious?"

"No," Joe sighed. He prayed this wasn't a wild goose chase.

Frank said, "Let me find a place to park. Talk to you in a few." Five minutes later Frank called back. "We're in place. We have fifteen cars in the lot on our side. How 'bout yours?"

Joe looked around. "It's completely empty except for me." A sense of unease settled in his stomach. He looked at the skinny tree. It didn't offer much comfort.

"Let's check-in every ten minutes," Frank said.

"Okay, sounds good."

The first ten minutes passed quickly. The second a little slower. The third downright dragged. Joe didn't think ten minutes could last so long. The check-ins weren't that exciting either. The only thing to report was the number of cars leaving the mall.

Frank called on the dot at 11:35. "Nothing new to report on this side. We have two cars left in the lot. How 'bout you?"

"Nothing here." Joe tried not to sound bored. "I'm still all alone over here."

"You sound a little bored Joe."

"Well .. maybe .. a little." Joe was leaning against the side of his truck his hands buried in his pockets. The temperature had dropped and he was thinking about getting his gloves out of the truck.

"Whoa, wait," Frank said and something in his voice made Joe take notice. "I just saw lights. Headlights."

"Where?" Joe crouched and moved to the end of his truck where he'd have a clear view of anyone entering the lot.

"Main entrance," Frank said. "Can't tell which way they're going."

"Here," Joe said. "I've got company."

"Make and model?"

"Can't tell," Joe said. "It's a black van. I think they're looking for a place to park."

Joe held his breath as the van weaved through the lot. It kept clear of him and his truck and for that he was thankful. A minute later he was happy to report, "They just parked, but no one's getting out."

Frank said, "Could be teens out looking for a place to drink or something."

"Could be." Joe remained crouched at the end of his truck. The van was parked approximately thirty spaces away and it hadn't tried to avoid his truck entirely which made him nervous. He peered at the van's windows trying to make out the shapes inside. He thought he saw two figures, but couldn't be sure, not in the poor lighting.

"What's going on?" Frank's voice startled Joe.

"Nothing." Joe didn't take his eyes off the van. "What time is it?"

"Eleven forty."

"Twenty minutes to go," Joe said softly. "Call me back in ten, okay?"

"Okay."

This ten minutes proved to be longer than any of the previous. What's that they say about a watched pot? Nothing was boiling, or in other words, nothing was happening. Joe didn't know if that was good or bad.

Frank's voice came over the line. "It's eleven fifty. Any news?"

"No." Joe sounded disheartened. "What about you?"

"No. Hey, wait. Yeah. Headlights again. A car. Going slow like they're not sure where they're going." Frank lifted his binoculars to his eyes. "Small, gray compact."

"Tasha," Joe whispered and peered around the end of his truck. No movement in the van.

"Looks like she's headed your way," Frank said.

"I see her," Joe said as the headlights came into view. "She's going slow. Two men are getting out of the van. No, make that three. Tasha's pulling into a spot. She's getting out. I'm going to sign off. I don't want them to hear me."

Frank said, "Nancy and I are heading your way."

Joe stayed hidden behind his truck. Voices drifted on the night air and he stained to hear, to catch any word or phrase. The language was foreign – Russian. Joe could make out a strong male voice. It took the lead and did most of the talking. At first it was amiable. Then Joe heard Tasha's voice – defiant and uncompromising. The male voice responded with angry shouting. Tasha shouted back. More shouting and then Tasha screamed.

Joe peered around the end of the truck and his blood froze. Two men wearing heavy vests had rifles pointed at Tasha. One man spun and faced Joe's truck. Joe ducked behind the back tire and silently prayed, _please, please don't come over here_.

A split-second later the staccato thunder of high-powered assault rifles broke the night's calm. A spray of bullets peppered the truck and punctured the pavement.

Joe pressed his back against the tire and curled into a tight ball. The roar of the rifles and the distinctive _ping, ping, ping_ of bullets piercing metal rang in his ears. The truck rocked under the heavy gunfire. All around him Joe heard the muffled _pop, pop, pop_ of bullets sinking into pavement.

Too many bullets, he thought, way too many bullets.

He said another silent prayer. Oh, God. Sweet Jesus. Mother of Mary.

It wasn't a coherent prayer, or even a real prayer. It was more a desperate plea to anyone who might be listening.

The windows above his head shattered and glass rained down. Joe instinctively pulled his jacket over his head. He wondered where Frank and Nancy were and if they were pinned down, too. Bluetooth he thought, but didn't have a chance to call. A massive explosion tore through the night. The ground gave a violent heave and threw Joe forward. He found himself facedown on the pavement, arms outstretched. It took him a second to come to his senses and when he did he rolled into a crouch and scrambled back to the truck pressing his back against the tire again. Sweat dotted his brow and his heart was pounding for all it was worth. Then he noticed the dull roar filling his ears.

His hearing was gone.

More praying. _Please, please, don't come around the truck_.

He would never hear them coming.

He fumbled for his gun, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't get them to cooperate.

He jerked his head to the right, then to the left. No bullets to the right, no bullets to the left. The shooting had stopped. The truck wasn't rocking.

Now what?

Fear gripped him like a vise and panic followed right behind fear. Where were the gunmen?

Hide!

He put his hands out and fell to the ground. A piece of glass pierced his left palm sending a wave of sharp pain radiating through his hand and up his arm. Forget it – get under the truck and out of sight. On elbows and knees he wiggled under the truck scraping his pants and jacket in the process – his favorite jacket, too.

From the relative safety beneath the truck he caught sight of the two gunmen running to the black van. Still, nothing identifiable about it, or the men. But what really got his attention was the fire eating away at Miss Romanoff's car. The bright orange blaze lit up the night and thick black smoke rolled skyward blotting out the stars and moon.

The van was in motion. The driver gunned it and sped away.

Joe lay beneath the truck for a moment panting. Once the panting subsided, he started the arduous crawl out from under the truck working his way through a minefield of jagged metal, shards of glass, and bullet casings. Tiny bits of glass cut through his jeans and embedded in his thighs and knees. His open jacket left the center of his chest and stomach vulnerable. His t-shirt was no match for the razor sharp debris.

Joe grunted as he pulled himself along. "Uh, uh, uh."

Sharp bits of glass and metal stung his hands, but he ignored the pain and pushed on.

"Ooow!" A long, jagged piece of metal stabbed him in the stomach.

He rolled on his side fumbling at his blood soaked shirt as he tried to get a grip on the metal. It was like trying to pull a knife out by the serrated edge. His fingers kept slipping on the sharp object and the metal cut his fingertips. But he kept struggling. Finally, he got a good grip, gingerly pulled out the jagged scrap of metal and tossed it aside.

After a few deep breaths he continued on. When he was clear of the truck he got to his feet. Unsteady and breathing heavily, he stood beside the shell of his vehicle. Shock had frozen his brain and he was having trouble thinking clearly. He staggered away holding his bleeding left hand against his waist, his fingers curled protectively. He looked around – tentative – no one in sight, just him and the blazing car. That brought back memories. Too painful – don't go there – this isn't the same he told himself.

Cars with flashing lights sped soundlessly into view and surrounded the burning vehicle. Joe's hearing loss and shock insulated him from the intensity of the moment. Events were happening around him, but he felt removed from them, as if things were happening on a different plane of existence.

Police officers jumped out of patrol cars with weapons drawn. Two officers branched off and headed for Joe, their service revolvers pointed at his chest. One officer was speaking and he didn't look happy.

Joe realized the officer expected a response. He shook his head and pointed at his ear with his good hand.

The officer shouted. Joe knew this by the strain in the man's neck muscles and the tension in his jaw.

Joe held up his hands, shook his head, and pointed at his ears.

The officer spoke slowly and Joe read his lips.

"You can't hear?"

Joe nodded numbly. It felt as if the question came from a great distance. As if the officer was standing in one dimension and Joe was in another and they were trying to communicate across a great void.

Joe's fingers tingled. He held up his left hand and stared at it, suddenly fascinated by the blood oozing out of the center of his palm. He wiggled his fingers and was surprised to find they moved. Seeing the blood on Joe's hand and the scratches on his face the officers lowered their revolvers.

Frank and Nancy materialized beside him. Joe couldn't remember ever feeling so happy. Relief flooded his body. Frank held out an arm and Joe fell into his brother's embrace. Frank wrapped his right arm securely around Joe's shoulders and held him tight. Joe saw the officers backing away. Frank's left arm was out holding his PI badge as he motioned people out of the way and led Joe to a waiting ambulance. Joe couldn't remember seeing it arrive.

Two medics helped him onto a gurney. He closed his eyes and let them tend to him. He felt them fumble with his jacket. At some point he drifted off because the next thing he knew he was in a hospital bed with Nancy and Frank standing on either side of him.

"Hey," he managed fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Hey." Frank leaned in. "How ya feeling?"

Joe realized he could hear. "Tired. What happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

Joe picked up on the concern in his brother's voice. "Yeah, of course." He tried to sit up.

Nancy placed a hand on his shoulder gently restraining him. "Relax. You've got stitches in your stomach and hand."

Joe looked in the direction Nancy intended with a nod of her head. His left hand was bandaged, wrapped up all nice and neat in white gauze and an IV snaked into his arm.

"Antibiotics," Frank said following Joe's drowsy gaze. "The doctors want to ward off infection. You got a lot of cuts and scrapes and scratches tonight."

Joe nodded numbly as his eyes closed and it all came rushing back – his harrowing experience, being shot at, an explosion, and crawling out from under the truck.

Frank lightly patted his brother's shoulder. "You need to get some rest, Joe. The doctors are keeping you here for a couple of hours just to be safe. We'll be back in the morning to get you."

Joe peered at his brother through hooded eyes. Frank was right. He needed to rest.

Nancy stroked his arm and kissed his cheek. The kiss was soft and sweet and strangely reminded him of his mother. "Get some sleep," Nancy said. "We'll see you in the morning." She added a smile that said everything was going to be all right. The smile comforted Joe like a warm blanket and he drifted off to sleep.

HB/ND … HB/ND … HB/ND

Frank eased his SUV into the alley behind the _Endeavor_ office and parked next to Nancy's car. He pulled the key out of the ignition and turned to Nancy. "It's almost three in the morning. Want to spend the night? It hardly makes sense to go home then turn around and come back in a few hours."

Nancy was checking the alley.

"What's wrong?" Frank asked.

"I don't know." She shook her head, scanned the back door of the office then peered up at the tiny balcony off the loft apartment. "Something doesn't feel right."

"You're probably just on edge. It's understandable considering everything that's happened tonight. You have the envelope, right?"

"Yes, right here." Nancy patted the backpack lying on the floor next to her feet. "I wonder what we should do with it? It looks like our client is .." She didn't finish the sentence.

Frank laid a hand on Nancy's and squeezed. "Don't go there. We don't know what happened to Tasha. We saw her car in flames, but we can't assume anything. She might not have been in it. We have to wait for the police investigation."

Nancy's eyes crinkled with concern. "We're dealing with some very dangerous people here, Frank. They're willing to kill to get to this envelope. What could be that important?"

"I don't know." Fatigue showed in his voice. "But we don't have to figure it out tonight. Besides, we're too tired. I say we get some sleep and go at this fresh first thing in the morning." He ran a hand down his face. "So, what do you say? Want to spend what's left of the night here?"

"Yeah, but only because I don't want you here all alone."

"Huh? Really?"

"Yeah, something's not right. I can feel it. It's like we're being watched." Nancy slipped the backpack over her shoulder and pulled out her gun, a Glock 19. "I say we go in ready."

"Oh, okay." Frank quirked an eyebrow, sat up a little straighter and withdrew his gun.

They exited the SUV and crept to the office door, Nancy leading the way.

Frank noticed how dark the alley was. Too dark, he thought and shivered in the frigid night air. Parked cars, bushes, garbage cans and jutting trellises lined the alley offering a would-be assailant plenty of places to hide.

Nancy unlocked the door and Frank motioned her aside. Gun up, he stepped inside and peeked into the room. Not much to see other than the staircase. With a jerk of his head, he motioned for Nancy to follow him.

They entered the office cautiously. Frank peered up the staircase. He'd left a light on and a soft yellow glow filled the upstairs and poured down the stairs. Nancy gestured toward the office and Frank nodded. They would check the downstairs first.

They stayed low and moved quickly systematically searching the office, then Joe's bedroom and the downstairs bathroom. They found nothing suspicious or out of place. Nancy double checked the front and back doors before they headed upstairs.

Frank led the way, Nancy followed two steps behind. They repeated the same systematic search upstairs as they had downstairs. The loft apartment was small – a kitchen/living room area, a bathroom, and Frank's bedroom, so the search didn't take long.

A few minutes later Frank holstered his gun on his hip. "Satisfied? There's no one here."

"Yeah." Nancy shrugged off her backpack and dropped it on the kitchen table. "Sorry I got you all worked up for nothing."

"Always better to be safe than sorry." He pulled her into his arms and held her close.

She leaned into the power of his body and rested her head on his chest. She let out an exhausted sigh, "Maybe you're right. Maybe everything that happened tonight just has me rattled."

"Probably."

He felt the tension in her body. She was still on edge. Although he respected her instincts, he suspected she was overtired and overwrought, normal and natural, given the possibility their client might have been killed tonight.

"Let's get some sleep," he said.

Ten minutes later, she slipped into bed wearing one of his old white t-shirts. He turned off the bedside lamp then rolled over and snuggled up next her wrapping an arm around her waist. His body was warm and solid against her back and she relaxed a little – an undercurrent of sexual tension kept either of them from completely relaxing.

It had been a long day and an even longer night and Nancy's brain was fuzzy. As she drifted off to sleep she thought about Tasha. Had the young woman been in the car? Nancy sincerely hoped not.

And what about that envelope? What secrets did it hold? Frank had said they should wait until Joe was home from the hospital before they opened it and she'd agreed.

Another, more menacing, thought surfaced in Nancy's sleep deprived mind. Whoever was after the envelope would not rest until they found it. Their search would continue.

If they had Tasha would she reveal its whereabouts?

At some level Nancy realized it was only a matter of time until those in search of the envelope discovered she and Frank had it. Then what?

What Nancy couldn't have known was that her instincts were right. There was danger. She just had the wrong night.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thanks as always to those reading. Thanks to Eternal Evening, Mrs. Frank Hardy, Smithy, Caranath, JackieJacks, and bhar for the reviews. I do appreicate the heads up on the misspelled word and I have fixed it._

_To Smithy: Rigazzi's is a small Italian restaurant in my hometown. It's family owned and operated and quite nice (fancy). My husband and I like to go there on Fridays after work. No, it's never been on Triple D._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Nancy held the front door of the office open and Joe hobbled through. In one hand he held a stack of papers from the hospital and in the other a plastic bag containing his bloody clothes and a bottle of antibiotics. Nancy had had the foresight to bring him a fresh set of clothes. Every time he took a step the stiff fabric of his jeans rubbed against his bandaged knees irritating the tender skin where doctors had removed tiny bits of embedded glass.

Joe made it to the overstuffed sofa along the left wall and collapsed. He tossed the papers on a low table next to the sofa and dropped the plastic bag on the floor.

"Thanks for picking me up," he told Nancy as he leaned back and shut his eyes.

Nancy placed her handbag on her desk and turned to Joe slumped on the sofa. "It's time for your first dose of antibiotics. Want some water?"

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks." Joe hardly moved. He was tired and the sofa felt pretty darn good. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night - not with the nurses checking on him every hour, taking his blood pressure, checking his pulse.

Nancy went to the kitchen counter behind her desk, opened one of the overhead cabinets, got a glass, and filled it at the small sink.

"Here you go," she said handing the glass to Joe. She didn't think he looked too bad considering what he'd been through. A cut on his right cheek, a scrap on his chin, and several nicks scattered over his face, all received when the explosion threw him facedown on the pavement. His left palm was bandaged and under his shirt another bandage, an inch above his navel, covered the stitches in his stomach.

Joe forced himself into a sitting position and took the glass from Nancy.

She eased onto the sofa beside him and opened the bag on the floor. "I'll get your medicine for you. How do you feel? Any pain? We have Advil if you need." She found the medicine bottle and shook a pill into her hand.

"I'm fine – for now." Joe took the pill Nancy offered him and swallowed it along with half the water.

Frank entered the office through the back door, rounded the staircase, and saw Nancy and Joe on the sofa. As he approached he held up a manila folder. "I just got finished with the insurance company."

"How's my truck?" Joe asked slumping against the back of the sofa.

As Frank crossed the office he took one of the chairs in front of Nancy's desk, turned it to face the sofa then plopped into it. "D.O.A. I'm afraid."

"Great. I figured as much though." Joe was not surprised his truck was totaled.

Frank leaned forward. "Your truck's quite a sight – looking at it in the cold, hard light of day – it's, it's a miracle you made it out of there alive."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Joe let out a resigned sigh. It was as much for himself as his truck. He closed his eyes like he was ready for a nap.

Frank tapped the folder on his knee. "Hey, good news. Since we've been such loyal and efficient investigators for _Framers_' they're expediting your claim. You should have a check by Monday then we can go shopping for a new truck."

Joe opened one eye. "We?"

"Yeah." Frank grinned. "I'm sure you could use my help."

Joe opened both eyes and sat up a little. "I bought the first truck without your help I think I can buy the second one without it."

"Aw, come on, I've researched all the latest specs on all the newest models .."

Joe cut in, "When have you had time to do that?"

"I'm very good at multi-tasking."

Nancy cleared her throat. "Ahem. Guys, you think we could focus on the case?" She looked pointedly from Frank to Joe. "We have an envelope to consider."

"Oh, yeah," the brothers chorused.

"So, do we open it?" she asked.

Frank looked past her to the front door. "Not yet. We have company."

A shadowy figure lurked at the glass door reading the business hours. The figure pushed open the door and entered. Nancy immediately noticed the man's tie. You couldn't miss it – it was bright red and looked like a strip of blood running down the center of the his slender body.

Frank and Nancy rose as the man approached the group. He tipped his straw colored hat. "Detective Cutter, River Heights, P.D. We met briefly last night."

Frank and Nancy nodded remembering their encounter with him after Joe had been loaded into the ambulance.

Cutter continued, "We didn't really get a chance to talk last night given the circumstances. I have some questions I'd like to ask you folks. Now a good time?"

Frank pushed his chair over to Cutter. "Sure. Have a seat detective." Frank pulled the other chair in front of Nancy's desk up to the group and sat in it.

Cutter withdrew a notepad and pen from a pocket of his suit jacket. The tan suit hung on his slender frame and Nancy wondered if he had recently lost weight. She took a closer look at his face, clean shaven, dark eyes, and an olive complexion. He seemed healthy enough so she ruled out illness.

Cutter eased into the chair, leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "So," he said eyeing Joe, "you're the one who got shot at."

"Yeah, that's me, Joe Hardy."

Cutter clicked his tongue. "I revisited the crime scene this morning. There wasn't much left of your truck. I'd say you're lucky to be alive."

"That's what I hear. I lived through it and believe me, I know how lucky I am." Joe gave an inward shudder.

Cutter said, "So, why exactly were you there?"

Joe glanced at Nancy and Frank before answering. "I was following our client. She had a meeting set-up for midnight at the Woodland Mall."

Cutter pushed his hat up with his pen. "Your client, Tasha Romanoff, how long had she been your client?"

Nancy answered, "Just a few hours. She came in around four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

Cutter shifted his focus to Nancy. "She hire you to go with her to that meeting?"

Nancy hesitated. "No, not specifically."

"Then what'd she hire you for?"

Another hesitation. "Protection."

Frank rubbed his chin. Nancy was dancing around the truth and he wondered if Cutter had picked up on that.

Cutter kept at Nancy. "So, who was she meeting and why did she need protection?"

Nancy matched Cutter's dark gaze with one of her own. "We don't know who she was meeting. She never told us and we're not at liberty to discuss why she needed protection. We're still working that part of the case."

Smooth, Frank thought, very smooth.

A grin broke the corners of Cutter's lips, but it lacked warmth or mirth. "Well, let me put things in perspective for you. We're all working the same case here and it helps if we work together, not against each other, if you get my drift."

Frank decided to speak up. "For the record, we're not trying to hinder the police investigation Detective Cutter and if you check our backgrounds you'll find that we're all former police officers ourselves."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Cutter's tone was biting.

Frank said, "We want to help the police with this investigation and we're willing to share whatever information we can. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of information at the moment. Last night we gave you everything we had on Miss Romanoff – her phone number and address. I know it's not much, but it's honestly all we have."

Cutter used his pen and pushed his hat up another inch. "Well, then let me be the first to share some new information. We went to Miss Romanoff's house this morning. Guess what we found?"

Frank, Nancy, and Joe waited patiently.

Cutter watched each face as he spoke. "It had been broken into and ransacked. Got any idea why someone would want to break into your client's house?"

Joe ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "Maybe they were looking for something?"

Cutter's expression turned sour and his tone was sarcastic. "Thank you Mr. Hardy that was the first thing we thought of. I was wondering if you might be able to enlighten me as to what Miss Romanoff had that someone would want."

Nancy said, "Tasha Romanoff appeared to be wealthy. She was wearing a ruby studded cross yesterday and although I'm no expert, I'd say it was the real thing. Maybe someone was after her jewelry."

"Maybe." Cutter let the skepticism show in his voice. He glanced at his notepad then at the detectives. "Listen, I'm going to cut right to the chase here folks. I've been a detective for a helluva long time – almost thirty years – and you know the one thing I learned real fast? I learned when someone was lying to me. You could say I developed a sixth sense for it. Hell, after this much time and this many interviews I have a _highly_ developed sense for liars. You see, it's like fear. You know how the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you're afraid? Well, my sense of truth is like that. Whenever someone's lying to me those hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. And you know what those hairs are doing right now?" He paused, but no one braved an answer. "They're standing on end."

Frank cleared his throat and made deliberate eye contact with Cutter. "Detective, we have been honest with you and I give you my word we will provide you with any new information we uncover. By the same token we'd like to be kept in the loop regarding your investigation. Specifically, we'd like to know if Miss Romanoff's remains are found in her car."

Cutter stood and slipped his notepad and pen into his jacket pocket. "I'm not making any promises. My instincts are telling me you folks are hiding something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll find out. You can count on that."

Nancy, Frank, and Joe stood and watched as the door closed behind the detective.

Joe ran a hand through his mussed hair. "Well, that went well."

Frank's jaw clenched. "I don't think this bodes well for our investigation. We don't need to be making enemies with the police right off the bat."

Nancy, arms crossed, said, "I thought it best if we didn't say anything about the envelope. At least not until we've had a chance to see what's inside it."

Frank took a deep breath. "About that envelope .. I have some information that I didn't want to share with Detective Cutter either."

Nancy and Joe stared at Frank.

"Let's sit." Frank motioned Nancy and Joe onto the sofa and he plopped into the wingchair. He ran a hand along his chin and looked at his brother. "Remember, I said I'm good at multi-tasking?"

"So?" Joe shrugged.

"So, in between checking out the latest trucks and prices I called dad this morning."

"Aww," Joe said, "you didn't go running to dad with this case, did ya?"

Frank shook his head, slightly miffed. "Of course not. I called to ask Walter to do a background check on Tasha. I got dad instead, but it doesn't matter. Dad let me in on some important facts."

Nancy pushed her hair over her shoulders and leaned forward – all ears now. "Like what?"

"Two years ago Dimitri Romanoff hired the _Hardy Detective Agency_ to track down his sister, Tasha."

"What?" Joe frowned. "Is she a fugitive or something?"

Frank shook his head again. "No, no, nothing like that. According to dad Tasha's been on the run for three years. He didn't give me the whole story he just said that Tasha is trying to protect her family."

Joe's frown deepened. "By running? I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Frank admitted, "and dad wouldn't tell me any more over the phone. He's sending someone to meet us, someone who can explain all this."

"And who's that?" Nancy asked.

"Our new client," Frank said, "Dimitri Romanoff."

Nancy quirked an eyebrow and Joe frowned some more.

"He'll be here tomorrow afternoon," Frank said. "He's hired us to find his sister and protect his interests. Given that, we may want to wait for him before we open the envelope."

Nancy thought about that for a moment then said, "Tasha was our client first. I think we should follow her instructions. She was very explicit, she said to open the envelope if anything happened to her."

Joe added his voice, "I agree. We follow the client's instructions. Besides, I want to know what the heck is in that envelope. Whatever it is it may have gotten her killed."

* * *

><p>Tasha slowly lifted her head. The room spun around her. A bare bulb, dangling from the ceiling, lit the dank dirty space. Tangled strands of dark hair hung over her tear-streaked face. Water. Her parched throat cried out for water.<p>

How long had she been in this box of a room with no windows? Long enough that she'd had to relieve herself on the dirt floor like an animal. The memory repulsed her. She wished they had killed her outright. Death would have been preferable to this.

However, her captors had kept her alive and tortured her hoping to pry the whereabouts of the envelope from her. Well, she had been smart in giving it to Miss Drew and Mr. Hardy. What they had done with it, she didn't know, nor did she want to. That was the beauty of her plan she truly did not know the envelope's whereabouts.

A key at the door drew her attention. Her captors were back. Tasha steeled herself as two men entered the small space.

Mr. X, the leader, was dressed in a big burly coat with a fur collar. He walked over to Tasha and peered down at her sitting on the edge of a filthy mattress.

"Get up," he ordered in Russian and motioned to the man beside him.

Boris knew exactly what his boss wanted and took great delight in complying. He yanked Tasha up by the hair. Ignoring her screams he shoved her into a chair in the middle of the room and pointed a AK-47 at her head. He smelled of fast food, vodka, and sweat and filth. His smell permeated the room making Tasha want to vomit. His hands were stained with gun oil. He constantly cleaned his weapons, tending to them like ladies of the night, caressing their cold, hard metal.

Mr. X paced in front of Tasha rubbing his hands together as he collected his thoughts. Tasha, hunched in the chair, watched his expensive shoes pass in one direction and then the other. She knew what he wanted. They had played this deadly game twice already. Why he thought she would ever change her story was beyond her.

She kept her eyes on his shoes. They stopped in front of her. She looked up and wished she hadn't. He slapped her hard sending her head reeling. She tasted blood.

Boris, to her left, chuckled. The way he looked at her told her he would like nothing better than to defile her body then put a bullet in her brain.

Determination flooded Tasha's body and she steeled herself for more abuse. Since arriving in this hell hole she had told herself she had to be strong. She _would_ be strong. It was her mantra.

Mr. X leaned forward putting his face close to hers. "Who was in the truck?"

How many times would he ask her about the truck parked at the mall? She kept her voice steady and put a little steel into it. "I don't know."

How was she supposed to know who had been in it? If indeed, anyone had been.

He yanked her head up by the hair forcing her to look into his pale eyes. "I have been patient with you Tasha. I have given you chance after chance to tell me the truth. Why do you insist on lying?"

Confused, she just stared at him. What was he talking about? She honestly did not know.

In frustration he jerked her by the hair pitching her out of the chair. She slammed into the floor and groaned.

"Get up!" He shook a fist at her and snarled his displeasure.

She pulled herself onto the chair. Her face hurt, her head hurt, she was thirsty and hungry and tired, but she had to be strong. She would be strong. Those words echoed in her mind.

Mr. X adjusted his coat. "You must think me a fool. Or perhaps you think Boris a fool?" He sneered at Tasha. "You are wrong. You have seriously underestimated me – and Boris. He is not much to look at," no he wasn't – not with his pockmarked face and rotten teeth, "but he's very good at what he does. He knows how to kill people and he knows how to get information."

A depraved smile broke the features of Mr. X's face. He began pacing again. "Boris is very thorough and fast," Mr. X told Tasha. "He has found out who owns the truck."

Tasha wondered if she should care. She watched his shoes go back and forth, one direction then the other. Then her head was viciously yanked up and Mr. X's eyes were boring into hers like two hot coals. "Joseph Hardy, Private Detective."

The heavy Russian accent made the name sound like Yo-sef Har-day. The name caught Tasha by surprise and a flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes before she could stifle it.

Mr. X released her hair and smacked her hard across the face sending her flying off the chair.

"You know this man. I saw it in your eyes!" Anger and the fear he'd been deceived fueled his rage. "Get up!"

No, she thought lying on the ground, no, I won't. This is over. Kill me now.

Boris kicked her in the side eliciting a sharp yelp.

Mr. X knelt beside her. "This is not over Tasha. You have betrayed me. You, and those you love, and those you have involved in this, will pay for your mistake."

Mr. X rose, adjusted his coat, and motioned to Boris. Tasha heard them leave, heard the door being locked. Then, and only then, when she knew they were gone did she give in to pain and despair. She hugged herself and curled into a ball as silent sobs racked her battered body.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you so much for the reviews everyone, especially to those who've read the story before and are leaving reviews again - can't tell you how nice that is! And yes, there are slight changes._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Hi, everyone. Thanks for the reviews. I truly appreciate them and they help me make the story better. I like it when you let me know if I pulled you into a scene._

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

Frank and Joe stood next to Nancy's desk and watched as she cut the end of the envelope with a pair of scissors and peeked inside. Another envelope was nested within. She pulled it out and a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor.

Frank picked it up. "It's a note from Tasha. It says, 'If anything happens to me contact my brother, Dimitri Romanoff, immediately. He is the rightful owner of the contents of this envelope. Please, safeguard these items at all costs. Signed, Tasha Romanoff.' She gives an e-mail address and phone number for Dimitri. Well, we've already made contact with Dimitri so we can consider that part of the job done." He laid the paper on his desk.

Nancy cut through the next envelope, withdrew the contents, and placed each item on her desk. It was an odd assortment. From left to right there was; a flat rectangular velvet box, an old bible, a small notebook and several legal documents.

Frank thumbed through the documents a look of confusion spreading over his face. "They're all in Spanish."

"Spanish?" Joe asked an eyebrow rising. "Not Russian?"

"Nope, not Russian. See for yourself." Frank handed Joe the documents.

Joe scanned the papers. "That's weird. Spanish." He scratched his head, puzzled.

"The bible's in Russian," Nancy said carefully flipping the tarnished gold pages. Frank peered over her shoulder and watched as she lightly ran a finger down a handwritten page. "I think it's a family bible, these look like names followed by birth and death dates."

"I think you're right," Frank muttered and turned his attention to the rectangular box. He opened it and drew back in surprise. "Whoa, take a look at this."

Nancy, wide-eyed, marveled at the large ruby-studded cross attached to a heavy gold chain lying on a dark purple velvet cushion. "It's stunning. Tasha wore a cross like that, but hers was smaller, sized for a woman."

"Maybe this one's Dimitri's," Joe said. "Maybe this is what everyone's after. I'd say it's worth a small fortune."

Frank wondered out loud, "Is it worth dying for? Or killing for?"

Nancy used a tissue to turn the cross over. Symbols and elegant inscriptions adorned the back – in Russian. "I wish one of us spoke Russian," she said in frustration.

"Or Spanish," Joe said skimming through the pages of the notebook. "Most of this is written in Russian, but there's a few Spanish passages, too."

Frank stared at the items on the desk, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his chin. He thought about the items for a minute wondering if all of them were important or just one of them. Finally, he shook his head and let out a defeated sigh. "We're not going to make heads or tails out of this stuff today, not without a translator, or Dimitri. I say we concentrate on finding Tasha. That's what Dimitri hired us to do and it'd be nice if we had some information for him tomorrow when we meet him."

Joe's eyes narrowed to blue slits. "You don't think she's dead?"

"No," Frank said. "Someone's taken her and they need her alive, at least for a while. They want the envelope, or something in it, and the only way they're going to get it is if Tasha tells them where it is _or_ .. if they use her as a bargaining chip."

Nancy said, "You mean they might try to exchange her for the envelope."

Grim faced, Frank nodded. "Exactly."

Joe frowned. "So, how exactly do we start looking for her?"

Frank shrugged off his jacket and headed to his desk. "Let's start with asking ourselves who broke into her condo."

"The crazies in the van," Joe said offhandedly.

Frank draped his jacket over the back of his chair and booted his computer. "That black van, that's where we start our investigation."

Nancy went to the kitchen counter and filled a glass with water.

Joe, leaning against Nancy's desk, asked, "How are we going to investigate the van? I didn't get a license plate number."

Frank grinned at his brother. "But you did see the van. You know its general size and shape."  
>"Big and boxy," Joe said pushing off the desk. "How's that help?"<p>

Nancy was at the kitchen counter, sipping water, thinking about the envelope and her initial suggestion to Tasha. "Hey, what do you guys think about putting the envelope in a safe deposit box?"

Frank looked up from his computer. "I think that's a good idea. If these crazies, as Joe called them, figure out we're involved I have no doubt they'll tear this place apart looking for that envelope. It's best if it's not here."

Concern clouded Nancy's eyes. That was the very fear she'd had last night. "How secure is this place?" she asked.

Joe snorted. "Not secure enough, not when you're dealing with bullets and bombs."

Frank tapped the keys on his computer. "We can work on security tomorrow. For now, we need to track down that van. Let's start with the big names – Ford, Chevy, GMC. Joe, I want you to look at all the 2010 models, see which one fits what you saw."

Joe lumbered over to Frank's desk and took a seat. "So, we're looking for something new?"

"It looked sleek and shiny to me," Frank said. "But you had a better view. What do you think?"

"Brand new, top of the line." Joe studied the screen.

Nancy placed her empty glass in the sink then turned to the brothers. "I just thought of something. Joe said everyone spoke Russian. There's a Russian community, the Kiev Village, about forty-five minutes to the northwest of River Heights. If our crazies are new to this area, and speak limited English, they might gravitate to an area that reminds them of home, a place where some of the locals speak their language."

Frank's eyes lit up. "Good thinking Nan. You're absolutely right. I can't believe I didn't think of that. Can I use your computer?"

"Sure. Why?"

"I want to see how close the Woodland Mall is to the Kiev Village." Frank bent over Nancy's computer.

"Now see, I should've thought of that," Nancy said coming up behind Frank and placing a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Boris steered the black van onto Grant Street. It was another beautiful spring day. The temperature was approaching seventy and people bustled in and out of shops lining the street.<p>

There was only one business Boris was interested in – the _Endeavor Detective Agency_. Mr. X was right. Boris was good at finding information. It all came down to computers – just search the internet. Finding Joseph Hardy had been child's play. All Boris had done was type in the name and bingo, up popped the Endeavor Detective Agency website. It had taken Boris longer to find out Hardy owned the truck at the mall, but even that had not been difficult. A reliable source had put him in touch with someone at the Department of Motor Vehicles who, for a price, shared information.

Kurt, Boris' passenger, pointed at the van's GPS and said, "It's coming up on the left."

Boris merely grunted. He knew how to read a GPS he didn't need some tattooed, overly pierced street punk who was in between gangs to tell him the obvious. Kurt was here for two reasons and two reasons only – back-up and get-away driver. If he screwed up either he was dead. Maybe even if he didn't screw up. To Boris, people were objects – a means to an end – he used them then disposed of them.

"There." Kurt pointed at the office, his arm so heavily tattooed it looked like a camouflaged shirt sleeve.

Boris slowed the van and scanned the exterior – glass door and large plate glass window. Boris squinted trying to see through the window. No luck. The light wasn't at the right angle, he couldn't see inside. He picked up speed. He'd go around the block and try again.

"That's the place, right?" Kurt asked scratching the back of his head. The sides of his head were shaved and what was left of his hair was pulled into a tight skinny ponytail that snaked down his back.

"You talk too much kid." Boris' predatory eyes and deadly tone told Kurt he meant what he said.

Kurt decided silence was golden. It was a wise decision.

* * *

><p>Frank sat at Nancy's desk staring at her computer screen. "Good call Nancy. The Woodland Mall is practically surrounded by the Kiev Village."<p>

Nancy, standing behind him, patted his shoulder. "Glad I could help. But honestly I don't think it's much help. It doesn't get us any closer to finding Tasha."

"It gives us a starting point," Frank told her.

Nancy gave Frank half a smile and a dubious shrug.

Joe said, "Hey, I think I've got it." He pointed at Frank's computer screen. "Ford E-Series, big and boxy, the E-150 XL."

Frank leaned over Joe's shoulder. "Good work Joe. That looks like it to me."

Joe excused himself and headed to the sofa to retrieve his glass of water. "So, now what?"

"Now," Frank said easing into his chair, "we concentrate on car dealerships in the Kiev Village. We'll start with Ford dealers." Frank started typing.

Nancy took a seat at her computer and did the same. Quiet settled over the office as Nancy and Frank searched the internet. Joe chugged the last of his water, grabbed his bag of clothes off the floor and tossed it in his room. His leather bomber jacket lay on the sofa, once a cherished favorite, but look at it now, the soft leather was marred by jagged rips and gashes. He let out an audible sigh. Another thing lost. His truck, his jacket, a great pair of jeans …

Frank's voice broke the silence bringing Joe out of his reverie. "I've got three that look like good candidates."

"Me, too," Nancy said and rattled off the names of the car dealerships.

"Those are the ones I have," Frank said. "Now we call them and see if any of them have sold a black Ford E-150 XL in the last month."

Nancy glanced at her watch. "How about I leave that to you and Joe? I need to get to the bank and deposit the fifty thousand dollars that's been burning a hole in my handbag and get a safe deposit box for the envelope."

"Sure," Frank said. "Joe and I can handle this."

Nancy carefully put each item back in the envelope, sealed it with tape, then grabbed her handbag and headed for the front door. As she passed Joe she nudged him and said, "Why don't you use the business account to buy yourself a new jacket?"

He responded with a smile and an enthusiastic thumb's up. "Thanks."

Nancy exited the office thinking how nice it was to make Joe happy, and easy. She stepped off the curb and up to her car.

"Hey miss, you got a light?"

Nancy looked up into the face of a young man dressed in a ratty gray t-shirt and baggy jeans. He was not someone she would normally expect to see on this street. Tattoos covered his neck and arms and piercings adorned almost every part of his body – eyebrows, nose, ears, and probably some parts Nancy couldn't see and didn't want to see.

"No," she said and opened her car door.

The young man grabbed the door with surprising strength. The tattoos had masked his build, but now Nancy saw the bulge of a well-defined bicep. "You work here?" he asked jerking his head toward the office.

Nancy noted the scar on his chin. Knife fight she thought and made her tone non-confrontational. "Excuse me, can I help you?" She intentionally sidestepped his question.

Surprising her, he let go of the door and backed away. "Hey, forget it, just forget it." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans and hurried down the sidewalk.

Nancy had noticed his eyes dart across the street before he backed off. She did a quick scan over her shoulder, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. People moved up and down the street, most shopping, some enjoying a late lunch at _Ragazzi's_.

What had made the guy back off?

"Nan, everything okay?" Joe leaned from the office doorway.

"Yes, just some crazy." Nancy kept scanning the street.

Joe stepped onto the sidewalk. "One of _our_ crazies?"

Nancy turned to Joe. "No, this guy was American, he spoke perfect English. I think he was a street thug."

"Well, he's in the wrong neighborhood." Joe sounded casual and relaxed. His demeanor helped Nancy relax. She'd gone on red alert when the guy grabbed her car door. She'd had the feeling he wanted something, might even have been willing to fight for it. What he wanted was unknown, but she was sure he hadn't picked her at random.

Joe studied Nancy's face. "You sure he's not one of our crazies?" He stepped closer to her, the car door forming a wall between them.

Nancy started to deny her suspicions then thought better of it. "No, I'm not sure. Let's just chalk it up to suspicious, okay?"

Joe rested a hand on the top of the door. "Okay. So, promise me you'll be careful."

"I will. I promise." Nancy shot a quick glance through the office window. Frank was on his cell phone, but he was watching her, and had been.

Joe followed the direction of Nancy's gaze. "I'll let him know everything's okay."

"Thanks. Now I really need to get going." Nancy flashed a relieved smile and got into her car.

Joe entered the office as Frank snapped his phone shut. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, just some punk. Nothing to worry about." Joe paused. "Oops, I forgot who I was talking to. You're the guy who worries about everything."

"With good reason," Frank assured his brother, an edge in his voice.

Joe let it pass. "So, how goes the car search? Any luck?"

Frank grabbed his jacket off his chair. "Yeah, I've tracked down the only place in the Kiev Village that carries the Ford E-Series, Zorin's Auto Center. They sold a black van two weeks ago. I'm on my way over there to check it out. Want to come?"

Joe thought a second. "Nah, I'll stay here .. hold down the fort .. get some lunch .. order a new jacket."

"Okay," Frank said pulling on his jacket. "Try not to get into any trouble."

"Who? Me?" Joe held his hands out and looked all innocent.

"Ha!" Frank laughed and shook his head as he left. If anyone could get into trouble in no time at all it was Joe.

* * *

><p>Boris sat in the van waiting for Kurt, a submachine gun rested on his lap. He had parked in the lot of a small grocery store three blocks from the Endeavor. The fingers of his right hand drummed out a steady beat on his leg, an indication he wasn't happy, but he wasn't stark raving mad either. Boris had no enduring emotions.<p>

Kurt had screwed up. From across the street Boris had watched Kurt go up to the girl. Why talk to the girl? He was told to look in the window, find out how many people were in the office. How hard was that?

It all came down to following orders. Kurt had not followed orders and you always follow orders. Hadn't Boris explained that to him? Drilled it into him? If you didn't follow orders, what good were you?

Kurt had effectively signed his own death warrant.

Boris kept tapping his leg.

If ignorance was bliss, then Kurt was the most blissful person on the planet. He jogged up to the van, opened the passenger's door and slid into the seat. "Hey," he said.

Boris stared out the windshield his hard black eyes staring at nothing in particular. When he spoke his voice was deceptively calm – almost soothing. "How many people in office?"

Kurt licked his lips. He didn't have an answer.

The angles of Boris' face hardened and in that instant Kurt knew he'd screwed up. Really screwed up. The blow came hard and fast slamming Kurt's head against the window with so much force it bounced off. Grabbing the back of his head he let out a few choice expletives. Then he saw the index finger of Boris' left hand slide into the trigger notch of the submachine gun on his lap. Several more expletives exploded in Kurt's throbbing head and fear tightened his throat. He struggled to catch his breath as he locked eyes with Boris. Kurt was looking straight into the eyes of a sociopath, a sociopath with a machine gun and the machine gun was leveled right at him.

"Hey, hey," Kurt said his hands coming up in surrender. "Whoa, take it easy man."

"How many people?" The voice was so freaking calm Kurt wanted to scream.

"I .. I don't know." Kurt's fear escalated.

"You talk to girl." The tone was accusatory.

"Yeah, she had a nice —"

Kurt was slammed against the window again and pinned there with a rough hand clamped around his tattooed throat, the barrel of the gun pressed hard against his right cheek. Kurt strained for air, panic and terror raged inside his stunned brain. Through gritted teeth he begged, "Man! Please. Come on. I'm sorry. I effed up! It .. it won't happen again."

If it were fists Kurt might have a chance, he could fight, but the gun tipped the scales. There was no way Boris would miss, not at point blank range.

An insidious grin spread across Boris' thin lips. "Head shot you die fast." The smile widened revealing rotten teeth. He lowered the gun a few inches. "Chest shot you die slow. Which way you like?"

Fear contorted Kurt's pierced face. "Please, man, I'm sorry. Really sorry." In desperation he added, "There was the girl and another guy."

"Yeah, I saw other guy. Blond."

"Yeah, a blond guy. He came out after I left."

Boris grunted and released Kurt. The punk slumped in his seat gasping for air, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would escape his chest. Sweat ringed his forehead and he was shaken to the core. But he kept an eye on the gun.

"Today you live," Boris said matter-of-factly and started the van. "We come back tonight. I take care of people in office. You drive van." It was a statement not a question.

Kurt answered right away, "Yeah, of course, I'll drive the van."

"No screw ups!"

Kurt jumped and his hands flew up. "You got my word. No screw ups."

The van pulled out of the lot. With a trembling hand Kurt touched the back of his head and felt something wet and sticky. Well, that sealed the deal. He'd do the job tonight then get as far away from this homicidal maniac as possible. Russians, he thought between ragged breaths, they were too unpredictable .. and dangerous.

* * *

><p>The Zorin Auto Center was four blocks from the Woodland Mall. Frank got there in forty-five minutes. Out of the three dealerships in the Kiev Village this was the only one that sold brand new vehicles.<p>

Frank walked into the showroom. Cars in a dazzling display of steel, metal, chrome, and tires, dominated the polished tile floor. New car aroma filled the air. It was hard to resist, even for Frank Hardy. He had to check out the price of a new, sleek, red corvette. Way out of his price range of course, but way at the top of his fantasies.

"Can I help you?" asked a young salesman with perfect teeth. "These come in royal blue, canary yellow .."

Frank tore his eyes away from the corvette and halted the salesman with an apologetic wave of his hand. "Sorry I'm not looking for a car. I'm looking for Mr. Gretszki."

The salesman didn't hide his disappointment. "Pops," he said with a sigh and cast a quick glance around the showroom. "There he is. Follow me."

Frank was introduced to a short, white haired man with a good-sized beer gut.

Frank extended a hand. "Mr. Gretszki."

"Pops," the stout man corrected and shook Frank's hand.

"We talked on the phone," Frank said, "I called about a Ford E-150 XL. You said you sold one about two weeks ago – fully loaded."

Pops pushed up his glasses and rubbed a bulbous nose. "Yeah. Why ya asking?" The slightest hint of a Russian accent laced his words.

Frank pulled out his P.I. badge. "I'm working a case."

A set of bushy eyebrows rose over Pops faded blue eyes. "You a cop?"

"No. P.I., big difference." Frank kept his tone neutral.

Pops shook his head. "I don't want no trouble."

"No," Frank hastened to say, "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here looking for some guys who bought a black van recently. They're Russian." He decided to use the story he'd thought up on the long drive to the Auto Center. "Listen, I can't really do anything to these guys legally. I'm out for revenge. These guys put my brother in the hospital and blew up a woman – my client."

A skeptical frown creased Pops' forehead creating a network of fine lines. "Blew up. What're you talking about?"

"The explosion last night. Hear about that?"

"A course, it's all over the news."

"Well, the guys I'm looking for are responsible for it. They shot up my brother and blew up my client's car. She was Russian by the way." Frank hoped that last comment might win him some sympathy.

Pops rubbed his chin and studied the floor for a moment. He kept Frank under close scrutiny. Frank figured it was best to let the man think.

Finally, the older man looked up and said, "Drugs? You think they're into drugs?"

Frank gave half a shrug. "I don't know, but it sounds right."

"I thought drugs when I saw them. They had lots of money. I thought that was too much money for guys who looked like they didn't have a day job. You know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean. And it sounds like the guys I'm looking for." Frank kept the excitement out of his voice. "You have a name, or names?" Without names he had nothing.

"Yeah. There was two of 'em. The big guy, he nodded to the other guy and he pulls out a handful of money. I told 'em we have to sign some papers, you have to have a title. They didn't look too happy about that and I thought they was gonna leave. But they looked at each other, must've decided they really wanted the van, and followed me to the office. The one guy signed the papers. I'll get 'em for you."

Twenty minutes later Frank was threading his SUV into the late afternoon traffic. He called Joe via his Bluetooth. Joe answered on the first ring.

"Joe, I got a name. Boris Kozlov."

"How do you spell that?" Joe wrote as Frank spelled. "Get a description?"

"Yeah, an ugly pock-faced Russian with bad teeth."

"How 'bout an address?"

"P.O. Box in the Kiev Village." Frank gave the address. "Could you look that up? See what housing developments, hotels, or condos are near there?"

"I'm on it," Joe said happy to be doing something on the case.

"Thanks." Frank checked the traffic then veered into the right lane.

Joe said, "Oh, and Nancy called. She deposited the money, got the safe deposit box and said she's going home to take a long, hot shower." Joe paused to let Frank picture that.

Which he did.

"And," Joe continued breaking up the pleasant image forming in Frank's mind, "she said to tell you you're taking her out to dinner tonight at _Ragazzi's_ at six-thirty."

Frank liked the sound of that. "I guess that means I need to make reservations."

"No." Joe chuckled. "It means you're buying. She's already made the reservation."

"Oh. Well, I think I can handle that." Frank was all smiles when he ended the call. He and Nancy had been so busy the past four months they'd hardly had any time alone.

The move from Bayport, New York to River Heights, Illinois had drained a considerable portion of Frank and Joe's savings which meant the brothers had hit town looking for work. Making the move, setting up the business and scrambling to get jobs hadn't left much free time.

Nancy had contributed a third to all the set-up expenses and her bank account was low, too. Her father, Carson Drew a local attorney, had sent cases her way whenever possible. Frank had the martial arts job to help make ends meet while Joe had worked as a nighttime security guard at the River Heights mall for three months. About the time the security guard job ended business at the Endeavor had picked up.

It had indeed been a busy four months Frank thought as he cruised onto the highway that would take him back to River Heights. But all things considered the future looked bright; the Endeavor was in the black, business was picking up, and dinner with Nancy tonight sounded great.

* * *

><p>The night air was cold and crisp. At 8:00p.m. Boris turned the van onto Grant Street and parked half a block from the Endeavor. Kurt sat stoically in the passenger's seat. He hadn't said more than two words since Boris picked him up an hour ago. Just as well, Boris didn't like idle chatter.<p>

A submachine gun lay on the floor behind the driver's seat. Boris reached back, grabbed the gun and hoisted it onto his lap. "You stay here," he told Kurt. "I check on office."

Kurt nodded. No arguments from him. He was counting the minutes until this job was finished. He had debated about coming tonight given what had happened this afternoon, but he'd decided he couldn't pass up the promised cash. Drugs didn't come cheap and he was low on both – cash and drugs.

Boris slid out of the van and shut the door. The street and sidewalks were empty. Kurt watched as Boris, dressed all in black, melted into the shadows.

Streetlights arched overhead providing pockets of illumination separated by areas of darkness. It was the perfect cover for a man with a submachine gun hidden under his jacket.

At 8:10p.m. Boris had the Endeavor in sight. The sound of voices caused him to take cover in a doorway across the street from the office. From his vantage point he saw a tall dark haired man and a light haired woman leaving the Italian restaurant. They were saying good-night to the owners. Boris watched as Nancy and Frank crossed the street and disappeared into the office.

Boris checked his watch and headed back to the van. He now knew there were at least three people in the office – the blond guy, a dark haired guy, and the girl. And one of the guys was Joseph Hardy.

Moments later the van rolled down the street with Kurt at the wheel. He parked and kept the engine running, the van not more than fifty feet from the Endeavor's front door. Across the street, Ragazzi's was closed. The patio, with the umbrella-topped tables, was cloaked in darkness, each umbrella securely tied down. Light glowed from curtained windows above the restaurant.

Earlier in the day Boris had read the restaurant's sign and discovered they closed at eight. He had made his plans accordingly. He kept to the shadows and positioned himself behind a table on the patio where he had a perfect view of the Endeavor. The cream-colored plastic blind on the glass door was down. No view there, but the wooden-slated blinds on the large plate glass window were partially open giving him a view inside.

Inside the office Nancy pointed at Joe's bedroom door and whispered, "I wonder if he took his medicine."

Frank was at the kitchen counter. The under cabinet lights bathed the office in a soft yellow glow. "He did," Frank said and held up a slip of paper. "He left you a note."

Nancy smiled. "I told him I would check on him when we got back from dinner."

Frank read the note, "Nancy, I took my medicine and I'm hitting the sack early. A hospital is no place to rest. I didn't get my usual twelve hours of sleep last night."

Nancy laughed then was overtaken by a yawn. "I'm tired, too. I didn't get enough sleep last night either." She rubbed her arms trying to chase away the chill of the night. "I forgot my jacket upstairs. I'm going to get it."

Frank watched her go. Her long legs, hardened by running and exercise, carried her up the stairs. The tight black jeans she wore accentuated her slim waist and full hips.

He thought about dinner. It had been a wonderful evening, the two of them bonding over great food and great wine. They'd had a chance to talk – really talk – look into each other's eyes and hold hands. Do all those things couples normally do.

Over a second glass of wine Nancy had unabashedly told him, "I just wanted you all to myself Frank Hardy."

Her honesty had surprised and aroused him all at the same time.

Outside Boris checked his gun. The magazine was securely locked and loaded. He crossed the deserted street moving closer to the window.

Nancy came down the stairs carrying her jacket. Her dark blue eyes sparkled in the soft lighting and her glossy copper-blonde hair cascaded to her mid-back. Knowing Frank liked her hair long she had let it grow.

Seeing Nancy in the low lights of the office caused a physical reaction in Frank's body. A slow wave of passion traveled from his brain to his groin and he felt the sudden weight between his legs. No sense denying it, he wanted her. But he also wanted everything to be perfect the night they consummated their relationship. He longed for a romantic evening – just the two of them surrounded by flickering candles and a bottle of chilled wine.

Maybe after this case is over, he thought. But then he'd thought that before – too many times before, always waiting for a case to be over.

His brow furrowed hooding his dark brown eyes. He lifted a hand and motioned her to him. Her answering smile touched him as deeply as a hug.

Maybe waiting for the end of a case wasn't the best plan.

Nancy dropped her jacket on the back of her red swivel chair and slipped into his arms. He hugged her tightly and felt her body melt into his. He let out a satisfied sigh. He could stay lost in this moment forever, molded together, Nancy's warm breath caressing his chest.

"Nan," he said his voice rough, thick with emotion.

She looked up. His hands moved to her nape and slipped under her hair. He pulled her face to his and kissed her.

Boris lifted the machine gun to his shoulder. With practiced precision he centered Nancy in the crosshairs. His index finger curled around the trigger. In a hoarse whisper he said, "Say good-bye to the pretty lady."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The black van idled at the curb, exhaust pouring from its tailpipe and turning to steam in the cold night air.

Inside the office Frank drew back to gaze upon Nancy's lovely face and that's when he saw it. The glint of metal outside the window – and in an instant it all came into focus – a dark figure in a ski-mask had a machine gun pointed at him and Nancy.

Nancy felt Frank's body tense at the same moment he yelled, "Down!"

He shoved her on the floor behind her desk and dove on top of her as gunshots blew out the window.

With a deafening roar the window crashed to the hardwood floor taking the wooden blinds with it. Splinted glass bounced wildly in all directions.

In the bedroom, Joe's eyes flew open. Gunshots! Automatic. Close. Not a dream. He tried to leap out of bed, but his foot got caught in the sheets and he fell on the floor. His tender knees and stitched left hand took the brunt of the fall. Dammit! That hurt. He'd probably torn the stitches.

_Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! _A steady stream of gunfire. Definitely automatic.

Concentrate, Joe told himself as he frantically looked around. Your gun! Where's your gun? For God's sake you should know where your gun is! Oh, there it is, on the shelf where you always keep it.

A momentary break in the gunfire allowed Joe to catch his breath. Then it started again and for one horrifying second he wondered if Frank and Nancy were dead. He glanced at the bedside clock. 8:35p.m. Frank and Nancy would be home from dinner, the gunman had to be shooting at them. The fact he was still shooting meant they were probably still alive.

In the office bullets zipped over Frank and Nancy as they lay huddled together behind her desk their hands covering their heads. Behind them a barrage of bullets took out the kitchen area. The upper cabinets exploded in big plumes of sawdust and chunks of wood flew through the air.

The gunman's aim was high. He was aiming where Nancy and Frank had been standing.

"Your gun," Frank said to Nancy, urgent, his gun was upstairs – no chance to get it.

Nancy pointed above them at the top of her desk. "My handbag."

Frank reached a hand up, felt around, found the strap and pulled. The handbag toppled over and landed on the floor between them spilling its contents. Nancy's gun landed closer to Frank and he grabbed it. The palm-sized Glock felt small in his hand – inadequate even, like Joe, he favored the larger Beretta, but in this situation a gun was a gun.

The gunman lowered his weapon to his waist and let loose with a round of bullets that tore through the wingback chairs in front of Nancy's desk. Fabric and stuffing exploded in huge puffs of white clouds and strips of black vinyl. The desk was his target, but the chairs blocked it.

Frank pushed Nancy's red swivel chair out of the way and crawled under the left side of her desk. He positioned himself between the desk's legs. He had a partial view of the gunman and what he saw worried him. The guy came ready, suited up in a bulletproof vest, pants, and helmet.

Frank clutched the Glock with both hands. In order to stop the gunman he'd have to aim for a vulnerable spot – only two choices – arms or face.

Nancy grabbed her cell phone, crawled under the desk, and dialed nine-one-one.

The smell of gunpowder hung in the air and a thin haze of smoke filled the office. Adrenaline pounded through Joe's veins. He had pulled on a pair of shorts and stuffed his feet into a pair of canvas sneakers. His bedroom door was ajar and he stood beside it with his Beretta in his hands trying to get a glimpse of the gunman.

There. Joe saw the barrel of the machine gun extend through the big square hole where the window used to be. Come on, Joe thought, come on. Give me something to aim at. He pressed his left shoulder and hip against the bedroom wall for leverage and lifted his gun. With his stance stable he took small even breaths and tightened his grip. As he honed in on his target he felt himself slip into the zone – blocking everything out – only the target mattered.

The gunman stepped into view firing from the hip. A fiery blaze of bullets demolished what remained of the wingback chairs. The gunman's body armor momentarily startled Joe. Headshot he decided. This guy was going down. Who knows, he may have already hurt Frank or Nancy – or worse. Joe took careful aim at the ski-masked face.

Without preamble the thundering gunshots came to an abrupt halt. An eerie calm fell over the office. No one moved.

"Joseph Hardy!" the gunman demanded the Russian accent distorting the name.

Frank flinched and threw Nancy a puzzled look. She returned an equally puzzled look.

Joe stood frozen in his room just as surprised if not more so than Frank and Nancy. He heard Frank yell in a cold hard voice, "Here!" Frank had the gunman in his sights and wouldn't mind putting a bullet in his arm. "What do you want?"

The gunman inched closer. Joe aimed at the man's head centering the target in his sights. This shot had to count.

The gunman trained the submachine gun at the floor beneath the desk. "You know what I want. Package!"

Frank thought a second then said, "Tasha for the package. Alive!" He bit off the last word.

"I no make deals!" the gruff voice barked.

"Yeah," Frank said coolly, "you're just the messenger. I want to speak to your boss."

"You making big mistake Joseph Hardy." The gunman shifted the gun like he was ready to fire, but the high-pitched wail of police sirens caused him to hesitate.

Joe had a shot. He steadied his hands, breathed out, and squeezed the trigger.

Boris, the gunman, turned to leave. Luck was with him. He turned to his right, away from Joe's shot. The bullet caught the edge of his helmet, ripped through his ski-mask and nicked his left cheek. White hot pain seared his skin all the way to the bone, but it didn't stop him. He bolted for the waiting van. Kurt had the passenger's door open.

Joe sprinted out of his bedroom, gun in hand, and leaped through the window. He looked left – nothing. He looked right and saw Boris jump into the van and pull the door shut. Joe took aim hoping to shoot out a tire.

Kurt hit the accelerator and the van peeled away its tires screeching in protest.

Joe saw his chance at a shot speeding away. He tore down the sidewalk hoping to get the license plate number. His sneakered feet pounded the pavement hard, his shorts flapped at the sides of his legs, the night's chill stung his nose. But it was no use. The van turned a corner and disappeared.

Joe stopped, sucked in great gulps of air, and cursed under his breath. He stood there in his shorts and shoes, his chest heaving, the curly blond hair on his chest glistening in the streetlights' glow and his breath making small puffs of steam.

Frank came running up beside him breathing heavily. "You get anything?"

Joe nodded in rapid jerks. "Yeah," he said between deep breaths, "I got some of the license plate."

Police cars with red and blue lights flashing, sped into view, parked in front of the Endeavor and muted their sirens. Officers spilled onto the pavement, hands at their hips ready to draw their revolvers. Curious neighbors and fellow business owners cautiously peeked from windows and a few brave souls even gathered on the sidewalk, hunched in jackets, hands buried in their pockets, wondering what had happened.

Frank and Joe looked at the police officers and the gathering crowd and then at each other. It was going to be another long night.

Frank, keenly aware Joe didn't have a modest bone in his body, said, "Um Joe, when we get to the office you might want to put some clothes on."

Joe's only response was a smile. Of all the things to worry about, being fully dressed hardly seemed important. But that was Frank for you, always worrying about the small stuff. Probably what makes him a good investigator though, Joe thought. Small details that others might dismiss, or overlook, rarely got past Frank.

The night passed in one long blur, one event blending seamlessly into another. For the second time in as many nights Nancy phoned her father with the news there had been a shooting. Carson Drew had not masked his concern nor had Hannah the Drew's longtime, live-in housekeeper. Although Mr. Drew and Hannah had many questions, Nancy waved them off, crime scene technicians buzzed in the background and police officers waited with questions of their own.

With a heavy sigh Nancy shut her phone and surveyed the destruction of the office. Broken glass, large pieces and small, covered the floor in front of what used to be the window. The wingback chairs in front of Nancy's desk were history as were the kitchen cabinets. On closer inspection Nancy discovered her desk had acquired a few bullet holes.

Crime scene techs methodically processed the room laying out small numbered yellow cards where shells had fallen. Just another day of work for them Nancy thought, but something entirely different for her. This attack had been personal the Endeavor was much more than an office, it was a home not only to Frank and Joe, but to her, too. She hadn't quite realized that until this moment and the realization made her more determined than ever to find the person, or persons, responsible for this attack.

Police officers were busy questioning Frank, so Nancy pulled Joe aside and checked his stitches. He had traded his shorts for a sweatshirt and jeans, not to please Frank, but because the office was chilly thanks to the gaping hole in the wall. Joe had ripped a stitch loose in his palm, nothing serious, it didn't warrant a trip to the ER. Nancy cleaned the wound, applied antibiotic salve, and bandaged his hand.

Next police officers questioned Nancy and Joe separately. Like Frank, neither of them could give a description of the gunman other than what he wore and the type of gun. Joe however provided a description of the van, including make and model, the partial license plate number he'd managed to glimpse, and a probable name for the gunman. Frank joined the discussion at that point and told of his trip to Zorin's Auto Center.

Then someone shouted, "Blood!" That held everyone's attention for a while. The crime scene techs determined Joe's shot had hit the gunman – most likely a glancing blow to the face. Head and face wounds are notorious bleeders. Bloodspots led down the sidewalk to the curb where the black van had been parked. The techs fanned out searching for tread marks. They were soon rewarded and set to work getting impressions and photos.

An APB was issued to all area hospitals for a Russian national with a head wound. It was a long shot, but it was something. Another APB was issued for the black van and its two armed suspects.

Then Detective Cutter showed up wearing a heavy black topcoat and that damnable blood red tie. The lead crime tech met Cutter at the door and brought him up-to-date on the night's events. Nancy noted that the local police officers and techs were courteous toward Cutter giving him the proper deference befitting his job, but that's where the civility ended. She got the distinct impression Cutter wasn't well liked by his fellow law enforcement buddies and she wondered why.

Once Cutter had the latest facts he turned to Nancy, Frank, and Joe and said, "Two shoot-outs, in two nights, in River Heights. What's this town coming to? And the same three P.I.s at both scenes. Now, that definitely gives me reason to pause."

Joe bristled, but remained silent. Nancy crossed her arms and returned a frosty glare.

Frank, hoping to establish some accord with the detective, tried to explain things. "Detective Cutter I'm sure you can understand how we've been pulled into this by our client, Tasha Romanoff. There's no way we could possibly know what this case involved or that we'd be shot at two nights in a row. We might not have taken the case if we'd known that."

Cutter's eyes narrowed to skeptical slits.

Frank cleared his throat and continued, "And for the record we believe the same men are responsible for both shootings and the kidnapping of Miss Romanoff. Oh, and we do believe that she's been kidnapped – not killed. Unless you have information to the contrary. Any word on her car?" Frank waited for an answer.

"Nothing yet," Cutter replied thinly.

Frank said, "It's our theory that whoever kidnapped Miss Romanoff may try using her as a bargaining chip." Frank surprised Joe and Nancy with his next statement. "And in the spirit of cooperation Detective I'm going to share another piece of information with you. Yesterday afternoon Miss Romanoff gave us an envelope. That's what the gunman wanted tonight. He came here looking for it. He actually demanded it."

Sarcasm filled Cutter's voice, "It might've helped if you'd mentioned that this afternoon."

"True," Frank admitted, "but honestly at the time I didn't think it was important. How was I, or anybody, to know a mad man with a machine gun was going to show up on our doorstep, shoot up the place, and demand the envelope?"

Cutter said, "I'm going to assume you didn't give him the envelope."

Frank shook his head. "No, Nancy put it in a safe deposit box this afternoon."

"Well, then we'll all head over to the bank right now and get it. I'd like to know what's in it." Cutter adjusted his coat and started to button it.

Nancy's voice stopped him. "I'm sorry, but we won't be going to the bank. Privacy Act. We have a signed contract with our client so we're under no obligation to show you, or anyone, what's in that envelope."

Cutter's face darkened. "It's in your best interest to reveal what's in that envelope. It might help me in this investigation. I can order you to produce it as evidence if I have to."

"With the proper search warrant," Frank said then held up a hand. "And before you go running off to get one I think it's only fair to tell you that Miss Romanoff's brother has hired us to find her. We're meeting with him tomorrow and we plan on giving him the envelope."

Cutter's gaze went as cold as ice. He looked like he was about to say something, but the return of the crime techs stopped him and for that Nancy was thankful. She didn't think she could stomach any more of Cutter's arrogance, especially not tonight, not after everything she and Frank and Joe had been through.

Thirty minutes later the techs closed the lids on their kits and left. Detective Cutter started to follow them, but he couldn't leave without one final warning. "This isn't over folks. You'll be seeing me again. I'm sure of that and I have a feeling it's going to be sooner rather than later."

There was no way he could know just how true those words were.

* * *

><p>Joe stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Almost two in the morning and here he was finishing a shower. He caught sight of his face in the foggy mirror, his disembodied head floating behind the mist. As the mirror cleared, the angry red scratches on his face came into view. The image matched his mood. He felt angry and oddly disconnected from the events of the last two evenings. Too much had happened, too quickly, in too short a time.<p>

His hand with the stitches throbbed drawing his attention keeping him from dwelling on the events of the night which was just as well. The stitches above his navel tingled and itched and he lightly ran his fingers over them. Nancy had done the same thing tonight when she had checked them. Unbeknownst to her, her touch had stirred buried emotions, emotions he had locked away and tried to forget. But here they were bubbling to the surface.

All alone in this tiny space he would admit it to himself – he missed the touch of a woman. The gentle caress of a delicate hand as it lightly traced the outline of your chest and slowly turned you inside out with overwhelming emotions … desire … companionship … love.

He'd had all that once – long ago – with a woman he loved.

God, he warned himself, don't go there. No good will come of it. Didn't you learn anything talking to all those grief counselors? All well-meaning of course, but it wasn't their gut-wrenching pain and when you got right down to it, talk was just that – talk. It didn't change a thing. It didn't bring back the dead.

Yellow alert, stop right there, he told himself, tuck all this away behind that happy-go-lucky, impulsive façade you've developed. All these years and no one's figured it out. Not even Frank.

Yeah, everyone thinks you're impulsive always going off half-cocked. They don't know you're really trying to stay one step ahead of despair – trying to outrun the pain of her death. That's a pain you just can't face. Not then, not now, not ever.

Joe hung up the towel and slipped on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Well, great. This was not where he wanted to be mentally – on an emotional roller-coaster – and to top it all off his head was pounding.

Get some Advil, go to bed, he thought.

A few steps from the bedroom brought him to the kitchen counter in the office. The boarded up window did nothing for the décor or his mood. Patched up office, patched up hand, patched up heart, he thought as he reached for a glass. His hand froze in mid-reach – nothing there. The cabinet doors were gone as was everything inside. This night was getting better by the minute.

Now wait a minute, there was a bright spot in all this. He, Frank, and Nancy had learned something important tonight. They had friends here. They were part of a community. Like the Hardys, most of the business owners on Grant Street lived above their businesses and tonight those neighbors had embraced the three private investigators by offering help, comfort, and support.

The Ragazzi family hadn't even asked what the detectives needed. After the last police car left the family had trotted across the street with sheets of plywood, hammers, nails, and plastic bags and got to work. Papa Tony and son Tony Jr. had helped Joe and Frank board up the window while Mama Teresa and daughter Antonia helped Nancy sweep the floor and gather up the glass and chunks of wood.

Muriel and Henry Boggs, the owners of Farmers Insurance next door, had offered assistance too. Muriel had promised she'd send the new girl over first thing in the morning to start the Endeavor's insurance claim.

Joe had playfully asked, "New girl? How come I didn't know there was a new girl?"

Nancy had patted him on the shoulder and said, "Because you were in Chicago for two weeks working that missing teen case. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Chicago, the teen, it all seemed so long ago.

Joe got two Advil from the bathroom and trudged upstairs for a glass. He found Frank sitting at the kitchen table staring into a steaming cup of hot chocolate. His Beretta lay on the table next to the cup.

A police cruiser was keeping watch outside tonight patrolling the block, but Frank wasn't taking any chances. He'd even insisted that a police officer take Nancy home. Given all that had happened and how tired she was, she hadn't put up a fight.

Joe went to the cupboard, got a glass and filled it at the sink then crossed the small room and eased into a chair opposite his brother.

Frank's hands cradled the cup in front of him. He had that intense penetrating stare he got whenever he was deep in thought pondering a case. Joe took a chug of water, downed the two Advil in his hand and chugged some more water. "You okay?" he asked his brother.

Frank looked up from the hot chocolate and fixed Joe with that penetrating stare. It was unnerving, kind of like Frank was looking right into his soul. Joe wished Frank would go back to staring at the cup.

Frank's dark brows creased into a frown. "How'd they get your name?"

Joe shrugged. He hadn't expected a question. "Beats the heck out of me."

Frank's hands came off the cup. "Could someone have followed you when you followed Tasha?"

Joe was slightly indignant. "I don't think so. I was careful. Besides they would've seen my truck, not me."

"Yeah." Frank went back to staring at the cup contemplating the situation. Then his eyes flashed and his head snapped up. "Your truck! How could I be so stupid?"

"Huh?" Joe's turn to frown.

Frank was up, pacing and gesturing as he spoke, his thoughts coming in short clipped sentences. "Your truck. Your license plate. The mall." Finally, a complete sentence. "You said the van weaved through the parking lot before picking a spot to park. They could've gotten your plate number then or the next day. Your truck was at the mall overnight and there most of today."

"That's right, and with the license number, Bingo – name and address." Joe cocked his head. "But wait, you can't just call up the Department of Motor Vehicles and get that information."

"No." Frank sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on the table. "But I think the guys we're dealing with have money and connections. We're not dealing with your basic everyday street thugs."

Joe nodded. "And for the right amount of money you can buy all the information you want."

Frank went back to contemplating. He sipped his hot chocolate, set the cup on the table and looked at Joe – that penetrating gaze again. "This is our first big case. I don't want to fail." The words held apprehension and determination.

"Neither do I." Joe pinned Frank with a direct gaze, one that conveyed his own conviction and determination.

Frank's jaw tightened and he stabbed the table with an index finger. "It's us against them. And right now they're one step ahead of us. They know who we are and where we are." He spread his hands out in question. "What do we know about them? One name." He held up a finger. "That's all we have – one name."

"Well," Joe forced some encouragement into his voice, "by tomorrow Cutter should have an address for Boris Kozlov and then we'll have a starting point for him."

Frank dismissed the statement with a grunt and firm shook of his head. "I doubt Cutter will share any information with us. We can't count on him for anything. Cutter's out for Cutter. We need to look at other options."

"Like what?" Joe frowned puzzled.

Frank became evasive. "Um, let's discuss that tomorrow. It's late and I'm tired." He drained the last of his hot chocolate and went to the sink. Joe took that as his cue to leave. He was tired, too.

It was three in the morning when Joe climbed into bed. For the first time in over a year he dreamed of her. A heart-shaped face, big brown eyes and long dark hair. The flush of young love reddened her cheeks. She was timeless – forever nineteen.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Friday morning, 9 o'clock. Nancy had a splitting headache. Probably the lack of caffeine, but she was determined to cut back on the coffee. She couldn't indulge the habit anyway, the coffee maker was gone, a casualty of last night's rampage. Of course, the fact that the office was in shambles didn't help matters nor did the heart-wrenching fact they had no clue where Tasha was.

Nancy sat at her desk massaging her throbbing forehead. They needed a break in this case, and soon, they had to find Tasha. Nancy brushed a strand of strawberry blonde hair from her weary eyes. She'd done her hair up in a French braid – her go-to hair style when life dealt her too many cards as it had last night.

This morning Nancy and the Hardys had a long list of things to do. First on the list was security. A phonebook lay in front of Nancy opened to the appropriate yellow page. Might as well start with the first company on the page, best to check out all the prices and what each company had to offer.

Joe stumbled out of his room looking none too good. Late nights and shoot-outs will do that to you, Nancy thought as she listened to the salesman on the other end of the phone drone on about his company's security package.

"Thanks," Nancy said ending the one-sided conversation. "I'll get back to you."

Frank came down the stairs cell phone in hand. "The glass guys will be here in an hour. With any luck we'll have a window by the end of the day."

Nancy wasn't holding her breath, but she perked up at the news. "I'd love that. That would certainly make my day." She stood and hugged herself. "It feels like a cave in here with the window boarded up." Instantly she thought of Tasha. Where was she? Was she being held in some horrible black hole? Nancy bit the corner of her lower lip. The office, even with a boarded up window, two destroyed chairs and cabinets, was probably a lot better than wherever Tasha was.

* * *

><p>Tasha lay on the filthy mattress in the small room. No windows, no light, no air. No way to measure the passage of time. This was a black void. A place where spiders lived and small animals came to die. It smelled of dirt and decay and the air was dank and cold. The cold penetrated her clothes, her skin, and spread its icy fingers like an ache along her body clawing into her joints and bones. She shivered and tried to burrow into her turtleneck sweater, into the mattress, into any warm spot.<p>

What she wouldn't give for a big woolly blanket and a soft pillow.

Tasha had slept, but not a restful sleep. Hers had been the sleep of the exhausted, the sleep of the condemned.

As she slowly awakened Yuri's face floated in her mind – tempting and teasing – haunting her fragmented thoughts and dreams. Would he be proud of her?

How could he? She'd gotten caught, captured, there was no excuse for incompetence. Yuri had taught her everything she knew about escape and evasion. She had been a good student, learning quickly, often surprising him with her natural ability and instincts. For three years his training had served her well. She had lived on the run evading her enemies. But it all came to nothing because in the end she had failed.

Wednesday, the midnight meeting, everything had come undone then. Where had she gone wrong? Going to the Endeavor Agency? Perhaps.

Why had Joseph Hardy been at the mall? How had he known to be there?

He must have followed her. Fool. She wanted to scream at him. Protect the envelope! Forget about me.

Rage boiled up inside of her and warmed her frozen limbs. She wanted to punch something. She turned into the filthy mattress and pounded it with a fist. A cloud of dirt and dust rose causing her to cough violently. Her ribs revolted in a chorus of sharp pains. Her neck, head, arms and legs followed suit.

Her captors had not been kind. The two guards, Boris and Ivan, were unduly cruel. Boris, the more sadistic of the two, took any opportunity he could to inflict a kick, a punch, or a slap.

If she did survive this, heaven help these men, they _would_ pay for what they did to her.

The room's light snapped on. The feeble beam cast the space in a murky, gray shroud. Tasha heard keys at the door and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She pushed herself up and winced at the aches and pains playing an unholy symphony along every part of her body. She felt like an old woman – hunched and crippled.

Ivan appeared in the doorway, a white paper bag in one hand and a machine gun in the other. He tossed the bag in her direction.

Food! The smell hit her like a summer breeze and warmed her.

The bag fell on the floor beside the mattress, its contents falling out, some of the eggs and toast spilling onto the dirt. She was ashamed to admit it, but she ate it. Hunger and the will to survive forced her to devour every grease covered crumb and every bit of cold rubbery eggs.

Ivan had tossed a bottle of water on the mattress, slammed the door shut and locked it. Thankfully he had left the light on. Or was that something to be thankful for? Tasha could see the absolute utter squalor she occupied.

Push away the depressing thoughts as Yuri trained you to do she told herself. Concentrate on survival and escape.

She grabbed the bottled water and almost downed the entire thing then thought better of it. She didn't know when, or if, they would give her water again. Make this one last, ration it out. She sipped – small greedy sips – relishing each one, letting the cool liquid sate her thirst.

The food and water warmed her and brought her mind to life. Her thoughts began to gel. A plan. She needed a plan. Study the guards and their routine. Look around now. See what this room has to offer.

* * *

><p>Joe tossed a piece of paper on Frank's desk. Frank looked up from his computer, eyed the paper and said, "What's this?"<p>

"Information on that P.O. box you asked me to check out." Joe grinned broadly. "Ready for a history lesson?"

Seeing the gleam in Joe's eyes Frank laced his hands together, put them behind his head, leaned back in his chair and said, "Sure. Why not?"

Nancy swiveled her chair toward the brothers. Frank and Joe's desks stood side by side along the same wall and were separated by a tall filing cabinet. The desks faced the wall with the overstuffed sofa.

Joe sat on the edge of his desk closest to Frank and got comfortable. "Okay," he said, "the Kiev Village is just one of many ethnic communities located in the greater Chicago area. That P.O. box Boris Kozlov used is on Division Street. About fifty years ago that would've been a great place to live, right in the center of Kiev Village. Not today. The neighborhoods surrounding that Post Office are all rundown and filled with low-income families, street gangs, and drugs. According to the latest police statistics those neighborhoods see more than their fair share of crime and murders. It's not a place you would want to live or own a business."

Joe hopped off his desk and scratched his head. "So, if the guys we're looking for have money why are they in the worst part of the Kiev Village? That P.O. box doesn't jive with what we know about these guys. If they have money, why live there?"

Nancy stood and got closer to the brothers' desks. "Perhaps," she said, "they don't live in any of the neighborhoods. Maybe they're just using the P.O. box as an address and a place to get mail."

"But why that one?" Joe insisted. "Why not use the Post Office in the West Village, a nice Russian community, just a few miles away."

"Because," Frank said getting to his feet, "there's more to it than just having an address."

Nancy and Joe looked at Frank expectantly.

"Drugs," Frank elaborated. "Drugs and guns." His face turned grim. "We know they have guns. Nice ones. And where you find guns, you usually find drugs."

A knot of fear formed in the pit of Nancy's stomach. Drugs and guns were a lethal combination and usually provoked senseless violence. Drug and gun dealers were people the police had trouble dealing with let alone three private investigators.

"I don't like the sound of that," Nancy told Frank. "And what about Tasha? How does she and her brother fit into all this?"

Frank didn't have a chance to speculate. The front door opened and in walked Detective Cutter. He had a manila folder in one hand and a smug expression on his tanned face. Nancy's eyes were drawn to his silk tie, a stunning hue of azure embellished with razor thin gold lines.

Cutter smiled and pushed up his Fedora hat. It matched the tie, same shade of azure. The hat's wide gold band was adorned with a small black feather attached by a gold clip. Nancy smiled appreciatively – the man did have excellent taste in ties and hats.

Cutter crossed to the center of the office. "Good morning folks." It was noon, but no one corrected him.

Frank stepped forward. "I'd offer you a chair, but they were destroyed last night. Oh, but you already know that."

Nancy was surprised by Frank's open sarcasm. She shot him a warning glance. She didn't want his irritation to get the better of him.

Frank got the message and toned down the bitterness. "So detective, any information on our gunman?" He eyed the folder in Cutter's hands.

Cutter gave a brusque, "No."

Frank's anger flared as did his nostrils. "I find that hard to believe. How many black vans can there be in the greater River Heights area owned by a Russian national with a facial wound. Not to mention he's packing a machine gun and shooting at people? That's a helluva lot of information. I'd think you'd have something on him by now."

So much for keeping the anger in check. Nancy laid a hand on Frank's arm silencing him. She didn't mean to minimize his anger – she shared it – but she thought it best if the confrontation didn't get out of hand. Her tone strident, she said, "Detective, I'm sure there's a reason you stopped by this morning."

"There is." Cutter ran a slender finger along the edge of the folder. "What can you tell me about a Kurt Swanson?"

Nancy frowned. "Nothing. I've never heard of him."

"You sure?" Cutter's dark brows rose.

"Of course," Nancy responded hotly. Frank couldn't resist throwing her a glance and a sly grin. Now who was getting hot under the collar?

"Well," Cutter said, "he was found dead in your client's condo this morning, a bullet in his head. You sure you don't know him?"

"Yes. I'm sure." Nancy's voice held a trace of irritation.

Frank's grin grew. He coughed chasing away the grin and said, "We haven't heard of him." He looked at Joe seated on the sofa. Joe stuck out his lower lip, shook his head and shrugged.

Cutter's voice was as smooth and silky as his tie, "Really? Hmmm. Well, then we have a problem folks."

"And what would that be?" Frank asked.

Cutter smiled savoring the probing look Frank gave him. "We dusted the condo for prints. Seems the perpetrator didn't bother wearing gloves. He left fingerprints all over the patio door. We got a match."

Joe sank back against the sofa dread seeping into every inch of his body.

Frank's eyes narrowed. "You've already had the prints analyzed? That was fast." He knew full well where this was going and he didn't like it. This was a train wreck waiting to happen and there was no way he could stop it. "It usually takes days to process fingerprints," he protested.

"Usually it does," Cutter agreed, "but this is a high-profile case. We're dealing with a car bombing and the possible kidnapping of a foreign national. That tends to make people and things move a little faster."

Frank stroked the back of his neck as thought occurred to him. "How about the FBI, are they involved yet?"

"No, and I'd like to keep it that way." On this point Cutter and Frank were in perfect agreement.

"Me, too," Frank said with relief.

"Partly it's early in the case," Cutter said, "partly it's because there's no hard evidence as to what happened to Miss Romanoff. Is she dead? Murdered? Kidnapped? Maybe she just took off. No one knows. And then there's the fact she holds dual citizenship – Russian and American – at the moment no one's willing to claim her or declare her missing."

A stony silence fell over the office as everyone digested the news. Nancy was deep in thought her arms crossed and the fingers of her right hand drumming her left arm.

"So," Cutter said breaking the silence, "back to Kurt Swanson and those fingerprints. One last chance, anyone know him?" His eyes slowly traveled from Nancy, to Frank, and then to Joe where they lingered.

Joe had his head down staring at the floor.

Cutter adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. "Ahem, well then, let me cut right to the chase. Those fingerprints belong to —"

"Me!" Joe came off the sofa. "But I had nothing to do with a murder. I left those fingerprints Wednesday night and I haven't been back to the condo since."

Unfazed, Cutter calmly stared at Joe. "Too bad fingerprints don't come with a date-time stamp Mr. Hardy. There's no way to know when you left those prints."

Nancy stepped forward. "Excuse me Detective, but I believe you're letting us jump to some conclusions here."

Cutter turned to Nancy and one dark brow slowly lifted over his right eye. "Such as?"

"Those fingerprints," she said, "you dusted for prints yesterday, the day the condo was broken into and ransacked. And I'm willing to bet you only got confirmation of a match today. That's how you know Joe's fingerprints are there. I'm sure the condo is being dusted again now that there's been a murder, but there hasn't been enough time to process any new prints." Nancy paused, drew back her shoulders, crossed her arms, and lifted her chin. "Am I right?"

"Bravo," Cutter said without cheer. "You're right. But I still want to know why Mr. Hardy's prints are there." He turned to Joe. "This better be good. The print pattern indicates you broke in."

Joe was sullen. "I did." Might as well get it all out in the open he figured. He told about breaking and entering and reading the e-mails. He ended with, "I didn't go beyond the kitchen."

Cutter gave everyone a withering look. "Would've been better if you told me this yesterday. Like I said before, it helps if we all work together not against each other."

"So, let's start working together," Frank said. "When did this Kurt Swanson die?"

Cutter noticed the change of topic and decided to go with it. "The coroner places the time of death between midnight and three a.m."

Nancy said, "Detective, what do you have on Kurt Swanson? Is he connected to the shootings?"

Cutter liked Nancy quick intellect. "He was just your average tattooed street thug. He was into drugs. He has a record."

"Tattoed?" Nancy's eyes widened. "Do you have a photo of him?"

Cutter frowned. "Yeah, right here." He waved the folder. "But it's .. I .. he's dead. It's not a pretty picture."

"That's okay," Nancy said. "I'd like to see it."

Joe knew what Nancy was thinking and stepped beside her. He wanted to see the photo, too.

Cutter opened the folder and handed it to Nancy. A photo of Kurt Swanson was paper-clipped inside. The young man was lying on his back, his lifeless eyes stared at the camera, and a bullet hole made a perfect circle in the middle of his forehead.

Nancy gasped.

"I warned you," Cutter said.

"No, no, it's not that," Nancy said. "It's that I've seen this man before. I recognize the scar on his chin .. and the tattoos .. and piercings." She told the detective about her encounter with Kurt the previous day and explained, "It seemed to me he backed off when he saw someone across the street. Someone he might have been working with – or for. I can't be sure. It's just a feeling I got. He asked if I worked here. He seemed interested in the Endeavor."

Frank spoke up, "Maybe he was the get-away driver last night. Our gunman might not like witnesses and in that case Kurt would've been expendable."

Cutter put forth another idea, "Swanson could have been the gunman. His arrest records are for drugs and gun trafficking."

"No," Joe said studying the photo, "I don't think so. He's not the right build or height. Kurt was tall and lean. The gunman was short and stocky."

"He's right," Frank said. "Plus the gunman had a heavy Russian accent. Is Kurt Russian?"

"No," Cutter sighed. "He's strictly American born right here in the Chicago area. I don't have much background on him yet."

Nancy felt there was a connection between Kurt and Boris Kozlov. If she could make the connection and follow the trail it might lead her, and the Hardys, to Tasha. "Have you contacted Kurt's family or friends yet?" she asked Cutter.

He checked his watch. "Yes. Ingrid Swanson, Kurt's mother, is meeting me at the station in an hour."

"If you don't mind detective, I'd like to join you when you interview Mrs. Swanson."

Cutter considered the idea. "Okay Miss Drew, in the spirit of cooperation. Besides, it can't hurt to have a woman with me when I do the interview. Sometimes a woman responds better to another woman. Can you be there in forty-five minutes?"

Nancy smiled. "You bet."

Cutter wasn't exactly smiling when he left the office a few minutes later, but his step seemed lighter.

Nancy ran upstairs to get her jacket.

Frank turned to Joe and said, "Looks like Cutter's finally letting us work with him. Maybe I was wrong about him."

"Ha," Joe scoffed. "He hasn't given us any information on Boris or the van. He's got to have something on that license plate by now."

"True," Frank admitted. Very true, he thought his dark brow wrinkling.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you reviewers and readers it's always nice to hear from you. I'd like to answer a few questions that came up in the reviews:_

_Yes, it is Iola that Joe is still not over. More of his feelings will be revealed as the story progresses._

_Just to clarify, Nancy does not live at the office. I should have worked that information into the story better. Nancy lives with her father and Hannah. Nancy and Frank have been dating for a year - most of it long distance. They started the Endeavor four months ago and that's how long they've been in the same town and able to date in person. Of course, setting up the business, looking for jobs, etc.. has gotten in the way of personal time. As the story progresses, so does N/F's relationship._


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Yes, I'm a day late posting this. I'm very sorry, but it couldn't be helped - work got in the way. This chapter reveals more information about our mysterious Tasha and that envelope. Take care and enjoy._

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><p>Chapter 8<p>

Ingrid Swanson was a rawboned sparrow of a woman. Years of misery and hard living had etched deep lines on her pale face. She sat in the interrogation room of the River Heights police department picking at a tissue wadded in her bony hands. Her life had been an endless cycle of toil and trouble and the news that her son had been murdered did nothing to lighten her load.

She looked at Nancy and Detective Cutter with naked despair and mistrust. Nancy surmised it was not the first time Ingrid Swanson had been questioned in regards to her son Kurt, but this time it involved his death and Nancy couldn't help but feel sorry for the forty-something year old woman.

Considering the circumstances Ingrid Swanson was holding up well. However, she did have concerns and voiced them. With a hollow eyed gaze she complained about the impending cost of burying her son. "I don't have no money," she said clenching the tissue tight in her hands. "How can I bury him? I don't have no money for that. I have to live you know." She dabbed at her eyes with the wadded tissue, but garnered no real sympathy from Nancy or Cutter.

Nancy shook her head at the incongruity of the situation. It was hard to believe a person's life could be so miserable that they were more upset about the cost of burying their only son than the actual death its self.

Nancy put forth her most sincere expression and said, "We're truly sorry for your loss Ms. Swanson and we're sorry to be questioning you today, but your answers could lead us to your son's killer."

Ingrid nodded absently, but money was still foremost in her mind. "Maybe my mother has some money. She usually keeps a little tucked away."

Nancy imagined 'mother' had helped poor Ingrid out more times than she cared to admit.

As the interview progressed, Cutter's instinct proved to be right, Ingrid Swanson did respond better to a female presence and directed her answers more to Nancy than to him. However, the only real lead Ingrid gave them was the name of Kurt's girlfriend – Becca Rosen. Ingrid did not have a phone number for Becca, but she did have an address which she provided.

Cutter wrote the address down and tactfully terminated the interview. He thanked Ms. Swanson for her time and help and reminded her that if she thought of anything – anything at all – to please contact him or the station. He handed her his card and escorted her into the waiting arms of an officer who would drive her home.

When the door of the interrogation room shut behind Ingrid, Cutter turned to Nancy and said, "You handled yourself very well Miss Drew. Very professional. I liked that. Once I track down this Becca Rosen would you mind sitting in again? A woman's presence does seem to help."

That was just what Nancy wanted to hear and she readily accepted the offer. "I'd love to sit in. Can we make the interview for tomorrow? I have an appointment this afternoon that might take a while."

Cutter gathered his papers and a manila folder from the interrogation table and said, "It'll probably take me most of the afternoon to track down Ms. Rosen and arrange a meeting, so tomorrow's fine. What say we try and meet her at her home, get a feel for where she lives and where Kurt Swanson lived?"

"I think that's a good idea. There might be something at the home that will help us in our investigation. Call me when you have a time and place set up." Nancy handed him one of her business cards. "My cell phone number and e-mail are all there. Call anytime."

Cutter returned the favor by giving Nancy one of his cards.

After the card exchange Nancy left the police station and made a beeline for the bank to retrieve Tasha Romanoff's envelope from the safe deposit box.

Frank had arranged a 2:30 meeting with Dimitri Romanoff in his hotel suite at the Hyatt Regency, River Heights' only five-star hotel. Nancy had promised Frank she'd meet him in the lobby at 2:15.

She arrived right on time with the envelope safely tucked in her handbag. Frank was waiting in the lobby. He had a soft zippered briefcase tucked under one arm and was dressed in a powder blue dress shirt and freshly pressed dark-gray pants. He looked good – really good and an unexpected wave of pleasure washed over Nancy. By comparison she felt underdressed. She was wearing a plum-colored, v-neck sweater and black trouser jeans with black kitten pumps. The pumps dressed up the outfit she thought.

She smiled when Frank spotted her. Since they had a few minutes before their meeting they sat in Chintz covered armchairs in the lobby and discussed the day's events.

Nancy filled Frank in on the interview with Ingrid Swanson and the upcoming interview with the girlfriend. She finished by saying, "If anyone knew who Kurt was working with it, or had dealings with, it would be his girlfriend. I'm hoping we get a name, or names."

"Me, too," Frank said then gave Nancy some good news. "The glass guys were at the office taking measurements when I left. They said they'd put a rush on the job and we can have a pane of glass in by Tuesday morning. Maybe Monday if we're lucky. But it's going to cost us extra."

"How much extra?" Nancy braced herself.

"Couple of hundred."

Nancy relaxed. "That's not that much and it's worth it, especially if we get the glass by Monday. That place feels like a cave right now. It's going to be hard enough to go another two or three days without a window."

"I hate not being able to see outside, too," Frank confessed. "You can't see who's coming, if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean and you're right, with the enemies we've recently made we need to keep our eyes open."

Frank checked his watch. "We better get going it's almost 2:30."

They rose and headed to the elevators.

In the elevator Frank said, "I did a little checking on our client, Dimitri Romanoff."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you're not going to believe this, but he's a prince."

Nancy jerked to attention. "What?" She gave Frank an _are you kidding me_ look.

He wasn't. "I'm serious. Dead serious. He's a real, honest to goodness prince. I even called the Hardy Detective Agency to double check."

"But .. but then that would mean .. that Tasha's a princess. Right?"

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

"That's right," Frank said as they exited the elevator.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," Nancy muttered.

There were only two doors to choose from on this floor. Frank picked one and knocked. The door was opened by a tall muscular man with a handsome face. His hair was the color of night and fell in soft curls around his head. He reminded Nancy of a bust of a Roman god. He had piercing dark eyes that took in everything. Nancy felt them sweep over her and Frank in one quick assessment.

Frank did the introductions. "I'm Frank Hardy and this is Nancy Drew. We have an appointment with Mr. Romanoff."

Nancy stared at the man filling the doorway. He was a little taller than Frank, so maybe six foot two, had good shoes, black pants, and a white shirt that had been tailored specifically for him, no tie. A Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol was secured in a very visible shoulder holster.

"I am Yuri Pavenko, the bodyguard. Identification please." He motioned with his fingers and waited.

Bodyguard. Well, that would explain the gun Nancy thought as she and Frank withdrew their drivers' licenses and PI badges and handed them over.

Yuri scanned the licenses and badges alternating between glancing at Nancy and Frank and the photos. He took his job seriously and Frank admired that.

When Yuri was satisfied Nancy and Frank were who they said they were he handed back the licenses and badges and opened the door wider. "Please, come in."

Nancy brushed past him feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. The man was handsome.

Nancy and Frank stepped into a magnificent living room furnished with plush sofas and chairs. A fireplace took up one wall and a large flat screen TV hung above it. To the right of the living room was a computer nook with a built-in desk and a black leather chair. A laptop computer, printer, and fax machine were arranged neatly on the desk. Above the desk were shelves filled with what someone deemed pieces of art.

The laptop computer was on and an open notebook lay next to it. Nancy stretched her neck trying to get a peek. It looked like an appointment book. She wondered if she and Frank were entered there – two-thirty appointment with private investigators.

And then she smelled it. The lush, full-bodied aroma of coffee. She had missed her morning coffee and would dearly love a cup right now. Sure, she was trying to cut down on the caffeine, but this didn't count, this smelled like imported coffee, she wasn't about to pass that up. A beautiful coffee service was set, ready and waiting, on the mahogany coffee table.

The arrival of two men, both tall and slender, brought Nancy out of her coffee obsession. The man on the right looked exactly like what he was – a secretary. He had a narrow face, sandy hair and fair skin that said he didn't wander outside much, if at all. He appeared to be in his early-thirties, his clothes were expensive but casual – a sleeveless cashmere sweater over a starched shirt paired with dark pants and a silk tie. The most important thing Nancy noticed was that he stayed one step behind the other man – a distinct sign of deference.

The other man was younger, probably in his late twenties and bore a strong familial resemblance to Tasha. He had the same dark hair and amber colored eyes and looked like a good night's sleep had eluded him. His demeanor was open and welcoming and he extended a hand to Frank. "I am Dimitri Romanoff." Like his sister, his Russian accent was minimal.

Frank shook the offered hand. "I'm Frank Hardy and this is Nancy Drew."

Dimitri shook Nancy's hand. "I'm pleased to meet you. Both of you. This is my secretary Ilia." He gestured toward the man standing beside him.

Ilia gave Nancy and Frank a curt, rigid bow, but did not offer his hand.

Dimitri motioned to the sofas and chairs. "Please, sit. Coffee anyone?"

"I'd love a cup," Nancy said easing onto the sofa next to Frank.

Dimitri chose one of the plush armchairs. Yuri remained in the background watching while Ilia poured the coffee.

Once everyone had coffee – except for Yuri, apparently bodyguards did not drink coffee with guests – Dimitri got right to business. "Any information on my sister?"

"Very little," Frank said. "We know she was kidnapped by three armed men. The leader spoke in Russian and we're fairly certain one of the men is Boris Kozlov. The only address we have for him is a P.O. box."

Dimitri's faced turned grim. "We know of Boris Kozlov. He is a gun dealer and paid assassin. He is not an easy man to track."

Frank nodded. "We're finding that out. Some names would help us track him. Do you know any of his associates?"

From the background Yuri spoke up, his voice hard, "He changes associates as often as he changes underwear."

Dimitri gave half a smile. "And that's not quite as often as you'd think, but it is frequent."

All the men grinned. Dark humor. Nancy thought the comments would have been funny in any other circumstance, but not today, not when Tasha was still missing.

"So," Frank said, "you're telling us he has no allegiance to anyone."

"Correct," Yuri said and faded into the background again. Nancy glanced at him over her shoulder. His face said a lot more than his answer. Hate and loathing radiated off of him in hot waves.

"That makes Mr. Kozlov a very dangerous man," Frank said to Dimitri.

"Yes," Dimitri agreed. He sipped his coffee and changed the topic. "How much of my circumstances and my sister's do you know?"

Nancy answered, "Nothing really."

"My sister can be very secretive. Sometimes it is in the best interest of the family. Sometimes it is not." Dimitri paused, cast a quick glance at Yuri as if seeking approval then continued, "I think it is best if I give you the whole story starting at the beginning."

Nancy and Frank bobbed their heads in unison, happy to hear that.

"How familiar are you with the Romanoff name?" Dimitri asked.

"Only that the last Tsar of Russia, Nicholas II, was a Romanov," Frank said. "The spelling is different, but I know he and his family were murdered in 1918."

"That is correct." Dimitri eyed Frank with mild curiosity. "And what you might not know is that I am a descendent of Nicholas II. His murder, and that of his family, is a story I know all too well."

Nancy and Frank exchanged discreet glances. So, this is how he's a prince Nancy thought. She knew a little of Nicholas II, too. "Wasn't there a daughter named Anastasia?"

"Yes." Dimitri nodded.

Nancy remembered more. "There were rumors she survived and over the years several women claimed to be her."

Dimitri let out a weary sigh. "Yes. Anastasia proved to be one of the great mysteries of the 20th century. I know people wanted to believe someone survived the horrible massacre of the Romanov family, but no one did and that was proved in 1991 when the first grave was discovered. However, it did not contain all the members of the Tsar's family. Two people were missing; Alexei, the Tsar's only son and one of the daughters. Naturally, people assumed it was Anastasia who was missing. Sixteen years later, in 2007, a second grave was discovered and DNA tests positively confirmed that this grave contained the remains of Alexei and one of his sisters – not Anastasia – an older sister. Anastasia had been in the first grave after all."

Nancy felt great sorrow for the long lost family. "It's a very sad story."

"Indeed it is." It was a story Dimitri had heard many times in his life and a story he had told many times. He felt compelled to tell it again. He studied his hands a moment then said, "On July 17, 1918, around midnight, the Tsar, his family, three of their servants, and the Tsar's doctor were awakened and told to dress. They were all taken to a cellar room. Nicholas carried his 13 year old son into the room. Alexei was a hemophilia and very fragile. He'd suffered an injury not long before that night and had been confined to a wheelchair. That night his father carried him into a room from which none of them would leave alive. A firing squad waited in an adjoining room. Chairs were brought in for the Tsar, his wife, and his son. Their daughters; Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia stood as did the servants and doctor. The executioners entered the room and began firing. The Tsar was shot and killed instantly. The women and Alexei were not so lucky. They were shot and wounded, but somehow lived. The confused executioners soon discovered the women had sewn gems and diamonds into their clothing. It had been the women's intention to protect the jewels from thieves – ironically the jewels wound up protecting them – temporarily. The executioners withdrew their bayonets and stabbed the women. Again, the gems protected them so the executioners were forced to shot them in the head. It is said that Alexei lie moaning on the floor and Yakov Yurovshy, the commander of the firing squad, shot him in the head."

The room fell quiet, a moment of silence for the dead.

Dimitri took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "As you can see, the Romanov family is no stranger to murder and violence. As a descendant of Nicholas the Second I am granted the title of prince." He held up a hand and gave a slight grin. "Please don't put too much emphasis on the title."

Nancy cast a quick, admiring smile at Frank. He always did his homework, always checked the facts _and_ the clients.

"Believe me," Dimitri was saying, "the title doesn't grant me much. Without a country to rule or preside over, princes and princesses must make their own way in the world. For my grandfather, that meant starting his own business. He liked food and wine, so he went into the restaurant business. Initially with a partner, but as the business grew, my grandfather wisely invested his money and was able to buy out his partner. When my grandfather died my father, Alexander, took over the businesses. By then there were several _Roma's_ restaurants. My father was a good business man and expanded beyond restaurants and into the wine industry. Today, all along the northeastern coast of Spain, _Roma's_ is known for its excellent food and wine. Thanks to my father we own the best vineyards in northern Spain and have started exporting our wines on the world market."

Dimitri paused while Ilia offered everyone more coffee. Nancy gladly accepted and Dimitri resumed his story. "Now, we come to the present. Well, not quite the present. I must back up a little. My father was killed a little over three years ago in what we thought at the time was a car accident. However, after his death certain things came to light that caused my sister and I to suspect our father had actually been murdered."

Nancy and Frank exchanged highly surprised looks.

"By the looks on your faces, I must assume Tasha did not tell you about my father," Dimitri said.

"No, she didn't," Nancy said. "She only told us she needed protection." Nancy intentionally left out the fact Tasha wanted the package protected and not herself. She wanted to hear what Dimitri had to say.

"I am not surprised," he said. "As I said before, Tasha can be very secretive. I know she means well and wants only to protect me and the family. I can't fault her for that, but let me explain why we believe our father's death was a murder and not an accident." He held up a hand apologetically. "Forgive me, but I must start at the beginning. A year before his death my father asked me what I thought about creating our own country. My father was always looking for ways to expand the business and his holdings, but this sounded fantastical. A country? I thought he must be joking. But he insisted telling me he had a financial backer. He said we would be like Monaco, the small principality in France, but without the casinos. Tourists would come to Romana, his name for the country, to see our vineyards, taste our wines, and enjoy a fabulous meal in one of our restaurants along the ocean. All we needed were hotels and he said hotel chains would jump at the chance to build on our beachfront property. I was intrigued. It sounded feasible – a country."

Dimitri's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Remember what I said about a prince without a country to rule? Our title doesn't mean much, but give us a country to rule and everything changes. I could see that in my father. This was his dream, a country, and in my heart, I felt exactly the same. My father and grandfather had built a business from the ground up. Now my father wanted to build a country from the ground up. That would be his legacy."

The light and excitement faded from Dimitri's eyes. "Two months after that conversation my father was dead. I took over the company and had all but forgotten about the idea of a country until I found land documents and contracts secreted away. The papers showed me the Spanish government had granted my father legal ease to establish his own government and sovereignty. Sounds like a dream come true, doesn't it?"

Nancy nodded.

Frank said, "I have a feeling the story doesn't end happily."

"No, it doesn't. As I dug through the papers I found that a month before my father's death he had withdrawn his applications for sovereignty. He had voided everything. Absolutely everything. It didn't make sense. I asked myself, Why would he give up on his dream? What could possibly make my father change his mind?"

Frank placed his empty coffee cup on the coffee table, waved off Ilia's offer of a refill, and said, "I think it's more likely _who_ made your father change his mind. Did you ever find out the name of the financial backer?"

"You and I think alike," Dimitri said. "The financial backer had a separate deal, or arrangement, with my father. There was only one paper I could find with the backer's name. It was an organization actually, named Lviv. L-V-I-V."

Nancy crossed her legs and leaned forward. "Could that be someone's name?"

"I'm not sure," Dimitri admitted. "In Russian the word means lion. I don't know if that is significant or merely happenstance. I went through those papers thoroughly and there was only one name mentioned in connection with the Lviv Organization, a Mr. Marcus. A first name was never given for him and that, in and of itself, is odd."

"Where are those papers now?" Nancy asked.

Dimitri smiled, his first real smile of the afternoon. "I'm hoping you have them Miss Drew. They were in Tasha's possession, and if I know my sister, I suspect she gave the documents to you before she was kidnapped. That is what she wanted protected, is it not?"

Nancy grinned. "Yes, you do know your sister, and I do have the documents with me." She leaned over, dug in her handbag and pulled out the envelope and held it up. "I believe this contains the documents."

Dimitri stared at the envelope for a long moment before answering. "Yes it does."

Nancy laid the envelope on the coffee table next to the coffee service. "Can you tell us why Tasha had the papers and why she was on the run for three years?"

Frank said, "Did it have anything to do with your father's death?"

Dimitri steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "It had everything to do with my father's death. Shortly after my father's death our offices were attacked. I say attacked because the perpetrators were not able to get in. They shot up the windows, but weren't able to shatter them. Unbeknownst to me, my father had changed the glass to bullet proof glass sometime before his death. The alarms went off and the police arrived. Of course, by then the assailants were long gone. My sister, mother, and I figured it was a random attack and didn't think much of it – until the next attack. That happened two weeks later – after I'd discovered my father's secreted documents – this attack was on one of our restaurants. Someone broke in and trashed the kitchen. They opened refrigerators and freezers and tossed food everywhere. They broke into the wine coolers and smashed hundreds of bottles of vintage wine. Fortunately, the alarms alerted the police and they arrived fairly quickly, but still, there was thousands of dollars worth of damage. Looking at the damage, I suddenly realized anger provoked the attack – things were destroyed, not stolen. And that's when I asked myself, what is this really about? To me, it appeared as if someone was out to destroy everything my father had built."

Dimitri's voice became strained. "And then I got a phone call. An unidentified man saying he wanted _the papers_. He didn't specify what papers. He said I knew what papers and he wanted it all, everything in the package. That sent a chill down my spine and in that moment I knew my father had been killed. I knew it for a fact. I denied knowing what the man was talking about, but of course he didn't believe it. He said I knew exactly what he was talking about and if he didn't get the package in five days then my family would be burying another person."

Nancy's brow knitted together and her dark blue eyes grew somber. "That had to be disturbing. Did you contact the police?"

"The man warned me against it. He said he had people on the inside. I didn't know whether that was true or not and frankly it didn't matter. I wasn't going to rely on the local police to protect me and my family. There was my mother, my aunt, and my sister, Tasha, to consider. I immediately sent my mother and aunt into hiding. They were packed and gone that night. Tasha and I stayed and made plans. Yuri has been with Tasha and me for almost ten years and during those years he has trained Tasha, at her insistence. According to Yuri, she is skilled in escape and evasion tactics. Based on that Tasha and I decided she would take the package and leave, stay out of reach of our enemies and on the run while we figured out who the enemy was and how to deal with them."

Frank leaned forward, one hand resting on a knee. "But you hired the _Hardy Detective Agency_ two years ago to find Tasha. Why? What changed?"

"You see, both Tasha and I were on the run. I was more open about it. My travels were said to be for business – and most were. But even I did not stay in one place for very long. Tasha remained undercover, moving frequently, changing her identity. She was good, and for the first six months, checked in frequently with Yuri and me. Then the check-ins grew less frequent, we lost track of her, and we weren't getting any closer to finding out who our enemies' were. After a year we didn't know anymore about them than we had when I received the threatening phone call. I decided we needed a change of tactics. I wanted Tasha home, I wanted to do this together. She refused saying she had uncovered some information but she wouldn't share it with us. That's when I went to the _Hardy Detective Agency _and asked them to track her down, bring her home, and if possible capture our enemies."

Dimitri shook his head. "As I said, Tasha is good. She managed to evade the _Hardy Agency's_ detectives. I'm hoping you and your agency can find her and bring her home. Oh, and I want to know who my enemies are. I want their names and I want them gone – for good." He bit off the last two words.

Nancy took a deep breath, let it out slowly and thought, he's not asking for much, almost the impossible, but other than that, not much. She glanced at Frank. It looked like he was thinking the same thing.

Dimitri eyed the envelope on the coffee table, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Miss Drew, if you would, please open the envelope?"

Nancy picked up the envelope and opened it. Ilia cleared away the coffee service. Nancy carefully removed each item from the envelope and placed it on the coffee table.

Frank said to Dimitri, "We opened the envelope and reviewed its contents before coming here."

"As you should have," Dimitri said.

Nancy had the items placed left to right on the coffee table – the flat velvet box with the cross, the bible, the notebook, and the legal documents.

Dimitri gazed upon objects. "These items hold a clue as to why my father was murdered and why my sister has been kidnapped." He turned to Nancy and Frank. "I have not changed or added anything in the envelope. Everything is as I found it shortly after my father's death."

Frank said, "Are all the items important or just one of them?"

Dimitri shook his head. "I don't know."

"Then let's go over each item," Frank said. "Starting with the box."

Dimitri nodded to Ilia who opened the box revealing the ruby-studded cross.

"It's beautiful," Nancy said awed again by its brilliance. "I noticed Tasha wore a similar cross. A smaller one, sized for a woman."

Dimitri explained, "The ruby cross is my family's emblem. Here, it rests upon the family crest. This particular cross has been in my family for almost a century. It has been passed down from oldest son to oldest son. It is now mine. The fact it is here, with these items, tells me my father intended it to be part of a coronation ceremony. It would have been placed around his neck when Romana became a country and he became the ruler."

Dimitri reached out and picked up the bible. It was black, old, and embossed with gold letters. "The family bible is another thing that would have been used at a coronation." He returned it to the table, picked up the papers and let them fall through his hands. "All the necessary documentation from the Spanish government." He shook his head, agitated, and rose. "I don't understand. He had everything he needed. Why pull out? Withdraw all the applications? Void all the contracts?" He waved a hand over the items on the table. "It's all here, ready to go. Then poof. He rescinds everything."

Frank eyed the items. "The real question is, did he rescind everything because he _wanted_ to, or was he _forced_ to?"

Dimitri ran a hand through his short dark hair. "I have asked that same question and I keep coming back to – _this was his dream_. I can't imagine him giving it up without a very good reason."

"Without being threatened perhaps," Nancy said pushing off the sofa.

"Perhaps," Dimitri said hesitating. "But that really doesn't make sense. He stopped the whole process, got everything rescinded, and _then_ he was killed."

Frank got to his feet. "That means, the only logical conclusion is that he was killed because he _stopped_ the process. He reneged on the deal. It seems to me, somebody wanted your father to have a country as much as he wanted one himself."

Nancy said, "And Tasha was kidnapped because of the envelope. One of these items, or perhaps all of them, are important to someone." She looked over the humble assortment. "Something here is worth killing for." She tapped her chin. "But what?"

Frank looked at Dimitri. "We need to find out why your father pulled out of the deal. I'd like to go over the car accident report, in English, if you have it."

An hour later Nancy and Frank left Dimitri Romanoff's hotel suite. They had the package and its contents. They also had a copy of the car accident report, in English, and a signed contract with Dimitri retaining the _Endeavor's_ services. The detectives were tasked with: finding Tasha and bringing her home safely, investigating Alexander Romanoff's car accident, unearthing the identity of Alexander's financial backer, and lastly, discovering the identity, or identities, of Alexander Romanoff's enemies.

It was a tall order for a fledging agency and Nancy wondered if she, Frank, and Joe were up to the tasks.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: So, here I was thinking no one liked the last chapter then - boom! - this morning all the reviews and alerts came in. Thank you for the reviews. They are greatly appreciated. There is some N/F romance in this chapter - can't say I'm great at it, but it's there and it's germane to the events in the story. Hey, what about Joe? Let's read on and find out ..._

* * *

><p>Chapter 9<p>

Joe was tired. He was tired of holding down the fort – watching the office. Nancy had taken off early that morning to go interview Kurt Swanson's mother with Detective Cutter and she'd never returned. Frank had taken off at one o'clock to get some lunch and meet up with Nancy at the Hyatt Regency where they were interviewing Dimitri Romanoff.

And what about Joe?

Well, here he was all alone in the office. He had just said good-bye to the second set of contractors. They'd given him their bid for repairing the cabinets and wall above the kitchen counter. It was a several thousand dollar bid. The glass guys had come and gone and they had jokingly mentioned maybe he should consider getting bullet proof glass. Joe hadn't laughed. He actually thought it was a good idea and something he, Frank, and Nancy should consider. A security guy had come and gone, too. Joe liked the security system the guy had outlined. It sounded like what they needed for the Endeavor.

Now Joe was at his desk hunched over the stack of paperwork everyone had left. He shrugged and let his hands fall to his sides and land on the arms of his chair. He didn't have the patience for paperwork. He'd just as soon leave this to Nancy and Frank. Paperwork and contracts were their area of expertise. He shoved the papers away like they were smelly socks.

Being careful of his stitched left palm, he laced his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the desk.

He was waiting for one more person, the new girl from Farmer's Insurance next door. He wondered what was taking her so long. Muriel Boggs, the owner of Farmer's, had said the new girl would be over first thing in the morning. Joe checked his watch. Three o'clock in the afternoon. Well, she was late. Really late. Farmer's closed at four o'clock on Fridays.

Joe glanced at the door and wondered if she was going to show. He wondered if he should go next door and see what was taking so long. Maybe they forgot. He leaned back, closed his eyes and thought. He was too tired to get up. He was too tired to call. Beside, it wasn't a big deal. If the new girl didn't show up today he would just go next door on Monday. He had to go next door on Monday anyway to get his check for his vehicle. Muriel had said the check should be ready by then. He hoped so. He needed to buy a new vehicle and the sooner, the better.

He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the door open. He cracked an eye. In walked a tall blonde. His feet came off the desk and he sat up – wide awake now. He ran his hands through his hair smoothing it down. The blonde greeted him with a smile. It was like the sun came out. There was a soft light coming through the glass door and it bathed her in a warm glow. She looked radiant. For a man who had spent last night dreaming about the one woman he had loved and lost, it was strange to feel such a strong, immediate attraction to another woman. But he did. He wasn't going to lie. He felt it. There was something different about this woman. Maybe it was her radiant smile – shy and sweet. Or maybe it was her eyes.

She was talking and he hadn't even noticed. "I'm sorry I'm late a couple of things came up this morning and .. well, I'm still learning the ropes so it took me longer to complete things than it should have. I apologize .. profusely."

He waved a hand dismissing her apology and got to his feet. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled, a playful smile that lit up his eyes. "I can't. I don't have a vehicle."

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh, that's right. Your car was totaled. I saw the paperwork."

"Yeah. Lucky me, huh?" He saw how she looked at his face, noticing all the cuts and scratches.

Her brow creased then she turned and scanned the room taking in all the damage. "You, um, seem to .. um, live .. dangerously."

He did a quick scan of the office and realized what it must look like to her. "I guess it does look that way, doesn't it?" He came around his desk getting closer to her.

"A little." She smiled and the sun came out again.

Honey-blonde hair shimmed the shoulders of her peach colored blouse. Great color on her Joe thought, not that he knew a thing about colors nor normally cared.

"I see a couple of destroyed chairs." She pointed with the pen in her right hand at the chairs in front of Nancy's desk. "And I see the kitchen area is history." She waved the pen like a magic wand in the direction of the missing kitchen cabinets. "I need to get pictures of everything." She patted a digital camera lying on a clipboard nestled in the crook of her arm. Papers were attached there, too. "Can I set my clipboard here?" She pointed at Nancy's desk with the pen.

"Sure, no problem," Joe said. "Can I help with anything?"

"Not yet. I'll have some questions after I take pictures." She flashed that incredible smile again then took the camera and moved toward the kitchen area. She lifted the camera and started taking pictures.

Joe smiled to himself, leaned against his desk, and watched her work. She had on black velvet heels and dark-wash jeans. She moved like she was on a runway, smooth and fluid. But thank the stars, or gods, or whatever, she wasn't reed-thin like a model. No, no, no. She had curves a-plenty – nice handfuls of curves – and Joe wouldn't mind getting his hands on some of them.

Yeah, he thought, there was something about her all right. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but he _felt_ it. Actually, the more he thought about it the more he realized _he_ felt different. Around her he wasn't Frank's younger, impulsive brother, he wasn't the impetuous, wise-cracking detective Nancy and Bess knew and maybe that was the 'something' right there. She knew nothing about him, she had no preconceived notions about him and that might be half the attraction.

"I didn't catch your name," he said. "I'm Joe Hardy."

She turned, a blush of embarrassment reddening her cheeks, and tapped a hand on her forehead. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Vanessa, Vanessa Bender. Pleased to meet you." She stepped toward him offering a hand.

Joe gladly shook it. Now she was close, he could smell the tropical scent of her shampoo and gaze into her eyes.

God, she had pretty eyes, a pale steel blue rimmed by black circles. Those eyes reminded him of home, of Barmet Bay on a crisp December day with the sun, a hazy white ball, hanging in a steel blue sky. Winter days on the bay were some of Joe's fondest childhood memories. Growing up, he and his family had spent many a chilly afternoon on the beach playing Frisbee. Later when the sun began to set, and the temperature dropped, the family would gather round a small fire and roast marshmallows. Good times, he thought, happy times.

Her eyes took him right back to those days, to the bay with the waves lapping at the shore and the setting sun slowly turning the sky to a wash of muted oranges and pinks. In his mind's eye he could see the colors spreading across the horizon like paint on a wet canvas.

He realized he was still holding her hand and she was staring at him. He let go of her hand and said, "So, where you from? No. Wait. Let me guess."

"Using your detective skills?" she mocked and looked like she didn't have much faith in his ability.

"Yeah." He gave her an indulgent, but confident smile. He crossed his arms and studied her face. "Your accent. It's a dead giveaway. New York." He waited for her to confirm it.

Her eyes narrowed to pale blue slits. "Yes, but that's easy —"

He waved a finger stopping her. "You're not small town New York, you're big city New York." He rested his chin in his hand and thought a moment. "Manhattan." He smiled. "I'd say you've lived there most of your life."

She didn't look impressed. "My Aunt Muriel could've told you that."

"Muriel's your aunt? Didn't know that. And she hasn't told me anything. I've been out of town for two weeks. Just got back two days ago. I'm working in the dark here."

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "What else can you tell me?" she deadpanned.

Playing hard to get, Joe thought. This could be fun. He liked a challenge.

"Okay," he said, "you told me a lot just now."

"Huh? How?" She was curious and Joe liked that.

Now, he had her undivided attention. "Yeah, you said 'my Aunt Muriel.' That tells me a lot. It tells me you're either running away from something or you were sent here. You're young, what twenty-four, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six." She hadn't taken her eyes off of him.

Joe grinned. Perfect age. "Hm, how many twenty-six year olds leave Manhattan for a small town in the mid-west to work for their aunts? Not many, I'd guess, not unless they need a job and a place to live. There had to be plenty of jobs in New York, probably more jobs available there than here so, you didn't leave because of the job market. Something else caused you to leave. To run. There's lots of reasons to run. Could be an ex-boyfriend, an abusive husband, a fight with your parents, trouble with the law …"

He paused to study her face again. She wasn't giving anything away. She'd make a great poker player.

"You're good," he said. "I don't know the reason you left, but give me time. I'll figure it out."

"_If_ you're right," she said. "Maybe I just needed a change of pace."

Joe let that idea ruminate for a second. "Maybe."

"I better get back to work," she said changing the subject and headed back to the kitchen area with her camera.

Joe admired her backside for a moment then returned to his desk. He pushed the stack of papers around like he was actually looking at them. Of course, he wasn't. He was still thinking about Vanessa. He had a feeling he was going to be thinking about her for a long time.

Vanessa finished with the camera and laid it on Nancy's desk. She grabbed the clipboard and started writing. She was finding it hard to concentrate. Joe Hardy was uppermost in her mind – tall, blond, and handsome, and only a few feet away. The tiniest smile broke the corners of her lips. She liked the strong angles of his face, the curve of his jaw, and his sparkling blue eyes that danced when he looked at her. His eyes drew her in and held her captive. He was smart, too, which surprised her and she wasn't easily surprised. He was right about her though. She had left New York for a reason, but it wasn't a reason she was willing to share with him. Not yet.

"Ready for some questions?" she asked approaching his desk. She'd gotten to that part on the paperwork.

"Sure." Joe was happy to shove the papers aside again. He hadn't really looked at them anyway.

She asked the necessary questions and he answered. It didn't take long.

"Well, that's all," she said a trace of sadness in her voice. "I'll get this to the office and process it. Oh, do you have any questions?"

"Just one." He got to his feet and leaned on the desk. "How about dinner tonight? I know a great little place two blocks from here."

* * *

><p>It was five o'clock when Nancy and Frank got to the office. They entered through the back door. As they came around the staircase Nancy said, "How about we order some take out and go over everything in the package?"<p>

"Sorry, I can't," Frank said.

"Why not?" Nancy placed a hand on Frank's arm stopping him.

He faced her. "I'm meeting some guys." Nancy's questioning frown caused him to add, "It has to do with the case."

"Who are you meeting?"

"I'd rather not say. I'm not sure these guys are going to be willing to do what I'm going to ask and if they do, then I don't want them getting in trouble. It's better if you don't know their names, at least not yet."

Nancy let go of Frank's arm. "You know Frank, I hate it when you try to be all mysterious." She looked mildly perturbed.

Frank held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not trying to be ―" He saw Joe come out of his room. His hair was wet, he had on a button up dress shirt, not buttoned though, and a nice pair of dress pants, but no shoes. Joe headed to the bathroom door and eyed himself in the full-length mirror attached to the door.

Frank pointed at Joe. "Now, there's something mysterious."

Nancy followed as Frank headed toward Joe.

Frank said to Joe, "What's up with you?"

Joe rubbed his chin with his index finger and thumb and studied his reflection. "I'm trying to decide if this shirt goes with these pants."

"What?" Frank didn't even look at the clothes. "Since when do you care if a shirt goes with a pair of pants?"

"Since now. Since I have a date."

"A date?" Frank said it like it was a completely foreign concept.

"Yeah." Joe turned to his brother. "You know, it's when a guy and a girl go out together. They have some dinner, they might have a drink or two, and afterwards the guy takes the girl back to her place."

Frank held up a hand. "Whoa. Wait a minute. You have a date? For real?"

Nancy elbowed Frank. "Come on Frank. This is great."

"Yeah," Joe said looking a little annoyed, "it's not that hard to believe, is it? That I have a date?"

Frank still wore a look of disbelief. "Well, I'm just trying to figure this out. We left you in charge of the office, we were only gone a couple of hours, how did you manage to get a date?"

Joe hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "We have a door. People walk through it."

Frank took a breath and counted to three in his head. Then he asked the question that was really on his mind. "Okay, so, who're you going out with?"

"The new girl - next door."

"Vanessa?" Frank's dark brows rose in surprise.

Joe nodded grinning.

An appreciative smile spread across Frank's face. "Vaa-ness-sa," he said drawing out the name, emphasizing each syllable. He gave Joe a look that said he'd hit the winning homerun.

Joe smiled. "You approve." It was a statement, not a question.

"Immensely." Frank was still smiling. However, Nancy's arched eyebrows and wide-eyed stare wiped the smile right off his face. He cleared his throat and added, "Ahem, yeah, she's nice looking."

"You mean hot," Joe clarified.

The heat spread up Frank's neck. He meekly offered, "She seems nice."

Nancy stared at him, arms crossed, the perturbed look back, full force. He had no idea she was actually enjoying this little interplay between the brothers, but she couldn't let Frank know that, not when he was being so mysterious about whom he was meeting.

"Killer smile," Joe was saying. He tilted his head and envisioned that smile. "Gorgeous eyes, too." He turned back to the mirror. "So, help me out here. Does this shirt go with these pants?"

Frank backed away and headed to the staircase. "Nancy'll have to help you. I have to change. I have another meeting." He dashed up the stairs nicely avoiding Nancy and her frown.

She helped Joe dress – nice shirt, casual pants, no tie – too formal she said. Once Joe was taken care of she headed to the staircase to wait for Frank. She leaned against the railing, arms crossed and blue eyes hooded under a simmering scowl. She didn't have long to wait.

Frank stopped at the top of the stairs when he saw Nancy at the bottom. Her body language spoke volumes. He pulled at the collar of his Polo shirt and said, "Umm, still here I see."

"Still here." She watched him come down the stairs, the fingers of her right hand drumming her left arm.

He arrived at the bottom. "Well, I have to get going. I don't want to be late."

"Hmmm." Nancy poked his chest with an index finger. "Immensely?" she asked her eyebrows arching.

"Huh? Oh." Frank realized she was referring to his earlier comment about Vanessa. He lowered his head and his voice, said, "You know I only have eyes for you." His coffee colored eyes glittered in the dim lighting as he held her in a direct and honest gaze.

She felt the emotion pass between them. She was looking straight into his heart – he'd laid it open for her – no lies, no games, and she liked that. Her eyes traveled over his face and alighted on his lips. A teasing smile broke the corners of her mouth. "I might need some convincing."

He smiled, backed her up against the wall next to the back door and placed a hand on either side of her pinning her in place. They were behind the staircase and well out of sight of the office.

Nancy's palms were flattened against his chest keeping him at bay. Make him work for it, she thought. But Frank was no dummy. He knew how to turn the tide in his favor. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck sending a shower of shivers trickling down her spine. He felt her tense, in a good way, in anticipation. He kissed the hollow of her neck, the spot that made her moan every time, this time was no exception.

She decided to be an active participant and slid her hands down his chest and tugged on the ends of his shirt. He kissed his way up her neck and to her jaw. Her warm, soft hands slipped under his shirt, touched his skin, and slid around to the small of his back. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close and relished the feel of his solid, male body along hers. Hard thighs pressed against hers and she hugged him tighter.

The hug was electrifying, a jolt of encouragement, and he kissed her on the lips. His mouth was firm, yet gentle as it moved against hers. He took his time, letting the kiss develop slowly – savoring the moment, the intimacy. His tongue brushed her lips seeking entrance. Tentative at first, her tongue met his – touching, tasting, stroking – arousing tender emotions. The kiss lasted three long minutes – his way of convincing her, thoroughly convincing her – he only had eyes for her.

When their lips parted she was flush and a bit breathless. "Okay. I believe you."

"Good." A smile of satisfaction lit his face. "So, how about we meet here after my meeting and go over the documents and the notebook in the envelope."

She wasn't going to let him off the hook that easy, not when he still hadn't told her who he was meeting. She stiffened slightly. "Sorry. You lost your chance. I'm not coming back tonight."

"I could come to your house." He looked hopeful.

"Nope. I'm tired. I haven't had a good night's sleep in two nights." She feigned a yawn and looked tired.

"Well, what am I going to do tonight then?" He gave her a sad look, still hopeful.

"Hey," Joe called, "I know what you can do."

Frank took a deep breath, counted to three, then yelled over his shoulder, "What?"

"No need to yell. I'm right here." Joe stood next to the staircase smiling.

Turning to his brother, Frank let out an exasperated sigh. "What?"

"You can go over these." Joe held up a stack of papers. "All the papers and stuff everybody left today. There's two contracts from the sub-contractors, one from the glass guys, one from the security guy —"

"Fine. Leave them on my desk." Frank leaned against the wall and ran his hands down his face suddenly feeling very tired.

"You're a little testy there, Frank," Joe smirked.

Nancy gave Frank's shoulder a motherly pat. "He just needs a good night's sleep that's all." She smiled sweetly.

Frank looked from Nancy to Joe and shook his head. Sometimes you just couldn't win.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

What he needed was an ice cold beer. Yeah, that's exactly what he needed. Frank was thinking about the beer way too much and didn't notice the tall dark-haired guy come out of the shadows and start following him.

It was unlike Frank Hardy to be so distracted that he didn't pick up on a tail. But he was thinking about Nancy and bemoaning the fact he wasn't getting a chance to spend time with her tonight. His own fault. He knew that. Didn't make it any better. Actually, it made it worse.

He'd thought about driving to the bar then decided against it. Walking would do him some good – mentally and physically. And now he was late. Just one more thing to darken his already dark mood.

Wonderful. He hated being late almost as much as he hated not having time alone with Nancy. But this meeting tonight was important. Not only did he hope to circumvent Detective Cutter and get some inside help from the River Heights police department, but he was laying the groundwork for the _Endeavor's_ future. If the agency was to survive in this town and be successful, then the Hardys and Nancy had to have an amiable rapport with the local law enforcement.

Through his martial arts classes Frank had made friends with a couple of detectives, Rivera and Henkins, both worked for the River Heights police department.

Frank had called Rivera and Henkins and asked them to meet him at the _Bullpen,_ a local sports bar popular with police officers and baseball fans. The detectives had agreed saying they were eager to find out how the three private detectives were doing.

When Frank got to the bar Rivera and Henkins were already seated at a small table, beers in hand. They lifted their beers in greeting when they saw him. He returned the greeting with a nod and headed toward them.

Misty, the waitress, saw him and arrived at the table a second after he did. She laid a napkin on the table and said, "What can I get you?"

She was about twenty-eight, cute, and had on a White Sox's baseball jersey – all the staff wore jerseys. Tonight was apparently White Sox's night. They switched it up though, sometimes they wore Chicago Cubs' jerseys.

Frank was partial to the Cubs' jerseys, but only because he was a National League fan all the way. No DH (designated hitter) for him. The pitcher should bat just like everyone else. Of course, his feelings might stem from the fact he'd been the starting pitcher on his high school and college teams. He'd prided himself on his pitching stats, _as well as_ his batting average.

"I'll have a Sam Adams," he told Misty.

She left and the three men engaged in the usual small talk. How's it going? How've you been? How's the business working out? Sounds like you've got quite a case there with those shootings.

The conversation was moving in the direction Frank wanted. But before he could follow up Misty returned with his beer. He thanked her, took a long pull on his drink and let himself relax. When he set the beer down he noticed writing on the glass. _Take pride in your beer_. Good advice, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a tall dark-haired guy enter the bar.

Frank filed that information at the back of his mind and returned his focus to Rivera and Henkins. "About that case," he said, "that's actually why I asked you guys to meet me. I could use a little help."

"Oh?" it was Rivera the senior of the two detectives. He was thirty-two, olive skinned and married with two kids, both boys. He'd been with the River Heights PD for eleven years. "I heard Jake Cutter caught that case. He hates PIs you know."

"No kidding?" Frank said. "I never would've guessed. What's he got against PIs?"

Henkins, a tall, dusty blond haired former Marine, answered, "His ex-wife used one to catch him cheating on her."

Rivera took over the story. "Cutter went to the PI, tried to talk him out of giving his information to the wife and, ahem, the photos. Said he'd consider it a professional courtesy. The PI told him, 'No dice,' and gave everything to the wife. From what I heard she got a very nice settlement."

Henkins added, "Yeah, word around the station was she took him to the cleaners. Apparently this wasn't the first time Cutter had cheated on her."

"Great," Frank said and took another pull on his beer.

Rivera and Henkins followed suit. Three guys in a bar having a beer.

The music and background noise were loud enough to mask a conversation, but not overwhelm it, which was perfect for the topic Frank wanted to discuss. He set his half empty glass on the table. "Well, at least now I understand Cutter's hostility."

Rivera put his arms on the table. "Care to tell us about the case?"

"Sure." That's exactly what Frank wanted to do. He laid out the case and what he, Joe, and Nancy had so far. Rivera and Henkins said nothing, just listened intently. Frank finished by saying, "I know Cutter's got to have something on that partial license plate by now. I swear, the guy's stonewalling us. We gave him a name, the vehicle type, a description of the suspect … what more could he ask for?"

Rivera and Henkins chuckled.

Rivera said, "You got that partial with you?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe Henkins or I could run it for you. See what we get."

Frank smiled. He pulled an index card out of his pocket and passed it to Rivera.

Rivera looked at the card and grinned. "You came prepared."

The index card had Boris' name, his physical description, the P.O. address he had given the car dealer, the make and model of the black van, and the partial license plate number.

Rivera slid the card over to Henkins then looked at Frank and said, "We'll get right on it. What's your cell phone number?"

The three men exchanged phone numbers and e-mails while finishing their beers. It was close to six thirty. The detectives rose, patted Frank on the shoulder, said good-night and left. Frank decided to stay and have dinner. The Bullpen served great hamburgers. He gave Misty his order then scanned the room. The tall dark-haired guy was sitting at the bar. Frank studied the man's back. Curly hair, broad shoulders. Frank realized he knew the guy. The guy turned and looked right at Frank. They stared at each other for a long moment then Frank tilted his head and pointed at an empty chair at his table. The universal sign for 'care to join me?' The man nodded.

Yuri, Dimitri's bodyguard, stepped up to the table holding the collar of the leather jacket he had draped over his shoulder.

"Following me?" Frank asked.

Yuri tossed the jacket in one of the empty chairs and eased into another. He might be six foot two, but he moved with grace and poise. He was dressed like most Americans out on a Friday night, jeans and a nice shirt, except his shirt was made of pure silk.

"Does Dimitri know you're here?" Frank asked.  
>"He knows."<p>

"He send you?"

"No. I'm here on my own."

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

Misty showed up interrupting the conversation, what little there was of it. Frank noticed how her eyes lit up when she saw Yuri. Frank figured Yuri was probably used to that response. The guy looked like an Adonis.

There was an extra sweetness in Misty's voice when she spoke to Yuri. "I saw you had coffee at the bar. Would you like another cup? Or maybe something to eat? We make great burgers."

"Another coffee please. Thank you miss."

Once Misty left Frank said, "If you wanted to talk you could've called or left a text message or e-mailed. You didn't have to follow me."

"I wanted to see how good you are."

"Really?" Frank wondered if there was more to it than that. "How'd I do?"

"Not bad. You didn't pick up on me right away." Yuri looked disappointed.

Frank didn't look too happy about it either. "Yeah, well I was distracted tonight."

"Distractions can be fatal."

"Tell me about it."

The men let that comment hung in the air for a moment.

"So," Frank said, "what did you want to talk about?"

"I want to be part of the investigation."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Before Yuri could answer Misty returned with his coffee. She asked if he needed anything else. After getting a, 'No thank you,' she left.

Frank waited silently while Yuri poured cream into his coffee and stirred.

Finally, Yuri said, "I want to work as a team. Any information you get, you give to me directly. Anything I find out I give to you. We work together to find Tasha."

Frank saw something flash in Yuri's eyes when he said Tasha's name. It was brief, over in less than a second, but Frank knew what he'd seen. The look. The look he would have had if the roles were reversed, if Nancy was the one missing. Frank eyed Yuri with new insight. He estimated Yuri to be three to five years older than himself and undoubtedly trained in physical combat, weapons, surveillance and escape and evasion since he'd trained Tasha in those areas. Frank couldn't think of a reason not to work with Yuri.

"I'm fine with you being part of the team," he said.

"Good." Yuri looked relieved. He sipped his coffee then said, "The princess and her safety are very important to me. I feel I have failed her, I've let the family down."

"I can understand that." Frank leaned forward. "So, if you're here, who's watching the prince?"

"There's another bodyguard. The prince is never unattended."

Good to know, Frank thought.

Misty arrived with Frank's hamburger. She asked if anyone wanted anything else. No one did.

Yuri grabbed his leather jacket off the neighboring chair. He took a silver card holder out of the pocket and opened it. He withdrew a card, placed it on the table and slid it toward Frank. "My cell phone number."

Frank glanced at the card then said, "I met with some police detectives tonight. I may have something on Boris by tomorrow. I'll let you know."

"Thanks." Yuri took one last sip of his coffee and stood. He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pants pocket and laid it on the table. "I'll let you enjoy your meal." He gathered up his jacket and left.

Frank stared at Yuri's card for a moment then dug into his hamburger. After dinner he ordered coffee and a slice of apple pie. He wasn't ready to face the empty office. Of course, he did have all those papers waiting for him – the ones Joe had dumped on his desk. But they weren't going anywhere. They could wait.

Thinking of Joe, Frank wondered how his date was going.

* * *

><p>It was a perfect first date. Joe took Vanessa to a little bistro. It was quaint and quiet and oozing with old world charm. He could tell she liked it. He got them a table by the front windows with the white lace café curtains. She said she liked watching the people pass by outside.<p>

They ordered and Joe made small talk. He told her he was also from New York, a small town called Bayport. She seemed genuinely interested. He told her about being a detective and working for his father and being in the Army and how he and his brother had always wanted their own business and that's what had brought them to River Heights.

She told him about growing up in Manhattan and loving the city lights and going to shows. She told him she was an only child, that her father had left when she was very young so she didn't know much about him. She skirted around the issue of why she was in River Heights and that was okay with Joe. She'd told him enough.

When they finished dinner they walked around for a while. The streets were mostly deserted. Streetlamps and the glow from windows lit their way. Since Vanessa had only been in town two weeks everything was new to her. Joe pointed out his favorite places to eat and Vanessa took mental notes. She liked to stop and check out the window displays. She said they reminded her of New York. Of course the ones here were much smaller and simpler.

The night was cold. She shivered and leaned her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close giving her a little extra warmth. They stopped in front of a window display and he thought how strange it was to be standing here, thousands of miles from home, with his arm around a stranger. He'd only met her that afternoon. If someone had told him that morning, he'd be doing this tonight, he would have told them they were crazy.

Having her next to him was strange and wonderful all at the same time. They started walking again. They passed under a streetlamp and her hair shone gold in the light. She was so completely different from Iola. Vanessa was blonde and blue eyed, Iola had been brunette and brown eyed. He mentally paused realizing he'd said Iola's name. Not out loud, he'd thought it, but he hadn't allowed himself to say or even think her name in years. Somehow though, it felt okay tonight, thinking her name, thinking about her.

He took Vanessa's hand and they started walking again.

"Warm enough?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks." She gave him that shy smile. It warmed his heart .. his body .. his very soul. With her and that smile around he'd never be cold again.

They arrived at the insurance office. She was living with her aunt and uncle for the time being. If things worked out she'd get a place of her own. They stood in the office, the lights low, the shades drawn, just the two of them, neither one quite ready to call it a night. He took it as a sign and kissed her on the lips, light and tender.

She grinned. "You always kiss on the first date?"

"Haven't had a first date in two years," he told her truthfully.

She found that hard to believe. "Really?"

"Really."

She leaned against the wall with her hands behind her back and looked at him studying his face. Sultry was the word that came to his mind and he wanted to kiss her again, really kiss her this time.

She looked away briefly then back at him. "I had a really nice time tonight, Joe. Thanks for a lovely evening."

He was being dismissed, no second kiss tonight. That meant he had to see her again. "I had a nice time, too," he said. "Does this mean you might say yes to a second date?"

"I might."

As it turned out she did. She agreed to go car shopping with him the next day. Joe said good-night and left. He waited outside until he heard the door lock securely behind him. Then he walked the few feet to his own office door.

Boris was unhappy, tired, and in pain. Unhappy because he didn't have the package. Tired because he'd spent the day watching the Endeavor. And in pain because his left cheek felt like he'd been punched in the face with a hot iron. The cheek wound was a consequence of Thursday night's shooting. One of the guys in the office had gotten off a lucky shot.

Boris had a plan as to how to get the package – break into the office and steal it. If that didn't work then kidnap the girl in the office. That should guarantee the dark haired guy's cooperation. That is, if the kiss he'd seen meant anything, and Boris was pretty sure it meant something. With _those_ kinds of guys it always did.

Boris' surveillance of the office had led him to the back alley. He'd located the back door and that's how he would get in tomorrow. He'd hoped to get in today, but the place had been swarming with people all day long. By late afternoon Boris had left to get something to eat. He returned after dark only to find two police cruisers patrolling the block. At that point he'd called it a night and decided he would strike tomorrow around noon. The perfect time, the occupants of the office wouldn't expect a break-in during the middle of the day.

Boris sat on a dilapidated sofa, in a broken down house, on one of the meanest streets in the Kiev Village. He grabbed a bottle of vodka off the floor, tilted his head back and took a long swig. The alcohol dulled the pain of his wound. The wound was minor compared to many of the things Boris had endured in his thirty years of life. Growing up poor on some of the meanest streets in Russian had hardened him to the core. He'd been introduced to guns at a young age and they had become his only real friends. He'd found guns were more reliable than people. You could put your faith and trust in guns. They never lied to you and they certainly never abandoned you. Guns protected you. They were always there when you needed them.

And in this neighborhood, you needed them.

Boris had his weapons laid out in front of him on a low wooden table. He treated each one with tender loving care – each one was special, each had its own strengths and weaknesses. Some were better suited to a particular job than another.

For instance, the black Swiss SIG P220 semi-automatic pistol was a reliable and accurate weapon, best used for close range targets. The dark gray HS 2000 Croatian semi-automatic pistol was also reliable, also suitable for close range targets and unique due to its polymer frame. It was the standard issue weapon in the Croatian Army. Boris had gotten this one off a dead soldier.

The Micro Uzi was a compact submachine gun good for longer distances. It had other advantages, too. It was light weight, less than eight pounds, and had a folding stock. When folded the gun was a mere eleven inches long making it easy to conceal. The AK-47 rifle, or Kalash as it was called in Russian slang, was one of the best assault rifles in the world. It was long, 34 inches, and heavy, close to ten pounds with a loaded magazine.

Boris took another swig of vodka, held onto the bottle, and let his eyes lightly caress each weapon. Which one should he use tomorrow? He rested the bottle on his knee and leaned forward. The AK-47 was out – too big, too bulky, too heavy. The pistols were good, but not intimidating enough. He reached out and touched the Micro Uzi. That's the one.

With his decision made Boris leaned back against the sofa, the bottle nestled in his lap. His body was loose, relaxed, and his head rolled to the side, his brain buzzing from the vodka. He heard a woman giggle and opened an eye. He saw Ivan, the other guard, enter the room hugging a skinny, brown haired woman. Probably a hooker, he thought, not interested.

Ivan was a reasonable looking guy with dark hair and fiery eyes. He still had all his teeth, a definite plus, and just enough scars to make him appealing to women looking for a bad boy. He was twenty-six, but looked thirty six, another factor in his favor. He also had money thanks to this job. Mr. X was a decent employer and never late with the cash.

The woman stopped short when she saw Boris. He saw the fear on her face. He had that effect on people and it made him happy. He smiled at her, actually more a leer, and she cringed. He saw her shrink back against Ivan and hug him tight pulling him close wanting protection. Ivan mistook her reaction as a signal she was ready for the bedroom, took her hand, and led her upstairs. She was happy to go. On the top step she threw one last glance over her shoulder at Boris. He was still there, still smiling, laughing inside.

He wasn't unhappy anymore and the vodka had dulled his pain. But he was tired.

* * *

><p><em>AN: As always, I thank each and every one of you for your reviews. Glad people are pleased to see Vanessa and the way I've introduced her. _


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

At ten-thirty on Saturday morning Nancy walked into the office. Detective Cutter had called her at home at nine saying he had located Becca Rosen and had set up an interview for eleven. Could she make it? Nancy had said, yes, and asked him to meet her at the office.

Frank was at his desk talking on his cell phone. Nancy looked at the destroyed kitchen area and the boarded up window and felt herself go sad inside. She dropped her handbag on her desk, turned, and took three steps which brought her to Frank's desk.

He had his phone pressed to his ear listening. He scribbled something on a notepad on his desk, into the phone, he said, "Yeah. Thanks. I got it. I owe you big time. Talk to you soon." He shut the phone and scribbled some more on the notepad.

Nancy put her hands on his desk and leaned in. She waited for Frank's eyes to wander up to hers. When they did she said, "I missed you last night." It was a simple sentence, but her tone conveyed the depth of her feelings.

Frank laid his phone on the desk and said, "I missed you, too. I'm sorry I was being so mysterious." He got to his feet and they smiled at each other. "I met with Detectives Rivera and Henkins last night. Remember them?"

"Yeah, they're in your martial arts class." Nancy took the class, too, for free – one of the perks of dating the instructor.

Frank continued, "That was Rivera on the phone. He checked out that partial license plate for me."

"What'd he find out?"

"Nothing from the license plate. You don't have to provide a physical address in order to register a car in Illinois. Who knew? But, getting a driver's license is a whole 'nother matter. Rivera checked Boris' license. He applied for, and got a Temporary Visitor Driver's License about a month ago. You have to provide either mortgage documents or a rental agreement in order to get a temporary license and that's where Rivera hit pay dirt. Boris is renting a house in the Kiev Village not far from the P.O. box address he gave the car dealer. I'm going to head over there and check it out."

Nancy's brow wrinkled into a concerned frown. "Isn't that one of the worst neighborhoods in the Kiev Village, known for its high crime rate and gangs?"

"Yes. That's why I'm taking my gun." Frank patted the Beretta holstered on his hip.

"I'd like to go with you, but Detective Cutter's meeting me here in a few minutes. We're going to interview Becca Rosen, Kurt Swanson's girlfriend."

Joe came out of his room smoothing down the t-shirt he'd just pulled over his head.

Frank said, "Maybe Joe will go with me." He looked at Joe expectantly.

"No can do," Joe said. He'd listened to the conversation while getting dressed in his bedroom. "Vanessa's coming over in a few minutes and we're going car shopping."

"Second date?" Frank's eyebrows lifted in interest. "I guess that means last night went well." He looked pleased for his brother.

Joe grinned and nodded. "It did. I really like her."

"You'll have to give me the details later," Frank said then directed his next comment to both Nancy and Joe. "By the way, we have a new member of our team."

"Who?" Nancy asked resting a hip on Frank's desk.

"Yuri, Dimitri's bodyguard. He made a point of following me to the bar last night. He wants to work with us, be a part of the investigation. I got the impression Tasha, and her safety, are very important to him."

Nancy said, "As in, Yuri and Tasha are a couple?"

Frank shrugged. "Can't say. And he certainly didn't say. I told him we could work together. The way I see it, he has to be well trained in weapons, surveillance .. you name it. I figure it can't hurt to have a guy like him on the team."

"I'm all for it," Joe said plopping on the sofa and pulling on a pair of tennis shoes. "We may need the extra manpower, and fire power, especially if what my gut is telling me, is true."

"What's that?" Frank asked.

Joe stopped lacing up his shoes and peered at Frank and Nancy. "That we're dealing with drug dealers or gun dealers, or both."

Frank blew out a breath. "Well, your gut and mine are telling us the same thing."

Nancy nodded. "I have the same feeling and that's why I don't think you should go to the Kiev Village alone, Frank. If you wait a couple of hours I can go with you."

Frank's mind was set. "I'm going to use Joe's line, No can do."

Nancy was worried and it showed.

Hoping to ease her fears, Frank said, "I'm just going to drive around the streets, get a feel for the place, find the house and check it out. I won't even get out of my car. I'll be back here in a couple of hours."

"Piece of advice," Joe said getting off the sofa, "I wouldn't take my own car if I were you. It's nice and it'll stand out. If anyone's watching, they're sure to notice it."

"You're right." Frank ran a hand over his chin. "I'll rent a car. Much safer. I'll get an old beater from Rent-a-Wreck which means I need to get going." He turned to Nancy. "But before I go, you need to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"You'll have dinner with me tonight."

Nancy chuckled and Frank realized how good it was to see her smile, to see her relaxed and happy.

"Okay," she said, "you don't even have to twist my arm. I promise."

Frank grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair and flung it over his shoulder. "Oh, I almost forgot. Did you make any headway on the appointment book or papers in the package?"

Nancy let out a frustrated sigh. "No. I really was tired last night. I hate to admit it, but I fell asleep with the appointment book in my hand and I didn't have a chance to look at it this morning. I locked everything up in dad's safe in his study. Maybe you and I can go through the appointment book and papers later tonight."

Frank shook his head firmly. "No, we're taking the night off. You promised me dinner and I'm going to hold you to that. Now, I'm leaving before you have a chance to change your mind."

He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss then left through the back door.

Vanessa showed up shortly after that waving a set of keys at Joe. "Aunt Muriel says we can use her car for the day."

The couple left looking very happy together.

Detective Cutter arrived just as Joe and Vanessa were backing out of the front parking lot. He offered to drive and Nancy accepted.

All was quiet at the Endeavor office.

* * *

><p>At eleven forty-five Frank was in an old, rusty, rental truck heading northeast to the Kiev Village. Boris was in a stolen compact sedan heading in the opposite direction, southwest, toward River Heights.<p>

Fate is a funny thing. Sometimes it works in your favor, and sometimes it doesn't. It hadn't worked in forty-three year old Larry Strain's favor that particular morning. All Larry had wanted was a quart of milk and a pack of cigarettes. He got neither. He had pulled into a mini-mart parking lot at five fifty-five a.m., parked his car and gotten out. It was dark and the lot was dimly lit. A man to his left called out. Larry wasn't sure if the guy had called to him. Human nature and curiosity being what it is caused Larry to turn. He saw a man approaching. Larry had been a little worried at that point, but not overly. The guy didn't appear to have a weapon or look like he wanted to harm Larry. Well, Larry had been wrong. Dead wrong.

Boris had the SIG P220, outfitted with a silencer, hidden in the pocket of his black jacket. He pulled it out and pointed it at Larry. Now, Larry was worried.

"Hey," Larry said. It was a cry of surprise, fear, and denial. His hands came up in a _let's take it easy_ gesture.

Boris smiled and Larry got really scared.

"Hey." Larry said again, stronger this time, desperate, the cry of a man facing the last seconds of his life.

Boris pulled the trigger and watched the small explosion of blood on Larry's chest. Larry's eyes went wide and he dropped straight down, dead, a dark red circle growing on his chest.

Boris grabbed Larry's keys off the ground where they had fallen and opened the trunk of Larry's car. Boris heaved and hoisted Larry's slim body into the trunk.

The body was there now, spilling blood all over the trunk, as Boris and Ivan drove to River Heights.

Ivan was at the wheel yawning, rubbing an eye with his fist. Boris had rousted him out of bed an hour and a half ago. The hooker had been sleeping peacefully beside him. Maybe not a hooker, Boris had thought. Hookers usually didn't spend the night. But whatever she was, it didn't matter, not to Boris. He had taken obscene pleasure in watching her face as she woke, especially when she realized he was there, in the room, staring at her. She'd gone white as a sheet and her eyes had looked as if they would pop out of her head.

No one had had to convince her it was time to leave. She'd literally thrown on her clothes and dashed down the stairs, her long brown hair flying behind her. Boris doubted Ivan would be bringing her home again. For his part Ivan hadn't looked too concerned.

Boris and Ivan got to Grant Street at twelve-forty and drove down the street. It was busier than when Boris had been there on Thursday afternoon with Kurt. Today there was a steady flow of cars and people. The Italian diner across the street from the _Endeavor_ was packed with the lunch time crowd.

Boris told Ivan to go around the block which he did. They came down Grant Street one more time. This time Boris scanned the front of the _Endeavor_. No light shone behind the glass front door. The office looked dark and empty. Boris told Ivan to drop him off by the back alley.

Ten minutes later, Boris stood next to the idling car. He was dressed in black cargo pants, a faded black t-shirt, and black combat boots that were worn and scuffed at the toes. Boris did a quick check of himself. He checked the top left pocket of his pants – cell phone. He checked his left thigh pocket – loaded magazine and a coil of rope. The right thigh pocket had his lock pick tools and a set of handcuffs. Tucked in the waistband of the pants was the Micro Uzi. The black t-shirt hung over the top of his pants hiding the butt of the gun.

Boris had everything he needed and nothing he didn't.

He nodded to Ivan and leaned in the driver's window. In Russian, he said, "Drive around the block for a while. I'll call when I'm ready. You'll meet me down the alley, the fifth door on the left. Understood?"

Ivan nodded. He knew Boris' quirks and repeated the instructions as he'd been trained to do. "When you call I come down the alley to the fifth door on the left."

"Good." Boris stepped away from the car.

Ivan slowly backed up, veered to the left, then pulled forward and eased the car onto the street. Boris was already making his way down the wide, paved alley.

A two-story building rose on the left and a two-story building rose on the right. For the most part, only business owners and the garbage collector used the alley. That meant on any given day traffic was light. Today there was none, Boris had the alley all to himself. Nevertheless, experience had taught him caution. He stayed close to the left-hand building and threaded his way to the _Endeavor's_ back door. He passed a parked car, slipped past a shrub, then a few more feet brought him to the door.

He pulled out the lock pick tools. Picking a lock was something he could do, but not something he did often, therefore he was slow. Plus, today he was vulnerable, anyone passing by or glancing out a window could see him. He paused frequently checking his surroundings. It took him fifteen, long, tedious minutes to pick the lock.

Finally, he turned the knob, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut behind him then locked it. He was in the dark staircase alcove. He slid his lock pick tools into a pants pocket and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He pulled the Micro Uzi out of his waistband, took a loaded magazine out of his left thigh pocket, pushed it into the gun and tested it to make sure it was securely locked in place. It was.

He headed to the staircase, stopped, glanced up, and listened. Nothing. Total silence. He rounded the staircase and looked into the office. Frank's desk was directly in front of him. Joe's was beyond it. The two desks were lined up like soldiers and faced the opposite wall, the wall with the long sofa. Beyond the desks was the boarded up window.

Boris moved into the gloomy office. The only light came from the front door. A bright, rectangular, shaft of sunlight spilled through the glass.

The package. Where would it be? A desk, he thought and went to the first desk – Frank's desk. Boris got to the desk, stopped, and checked the door. He could see the street and parking lot. No one was around. He pulled out the top center drawer of Frank's desk and searched. Nothing. He searched the top left-hand drawer and the bottom left-hand drawer. Again, nothing.

He moved to Joe's desk, repeated the search, and came up empty again.

Nancy's desk was centered in the office and faced the front door. Boris moved to it, glancing out the door, checking the street and the parking lot, and then he froze. A car was pulling up outside. It parked right in front of the office. An older man, and the girl from the office, got out of the car. They talked across the top of the car for a few seconds then both walked toward the office door.

Boris' heart raced. Time to hide. He slipped behind the wall that divided the office from the staircase alcove. There was enough space for him to stand comfortably between the wall and the stairs. It was a perfect hiding spot. No one entering the office would see him.

He heard a key turn in the door and the door open. A second later, light flooded the office. The man and girl entered the office talking. Boris struggled to hear the conversation. It wasn't easy, not with his heart pounding in his ears.

He heard the man say, "I'll call you as soon as I know something."

"Thanks," the girl said.

They said good-bye and the man left. Boris heard the door close. He held his breath and listened wondering where the girl was. He heard the faint rustle of papers – she must be at her desk. She stopped whatever she was doing and headed his way. He readied himself.

* * *

><p>Nancy was thirsty. It had been a long, hot day. She turned to the kitchen counter behind her desk and realized – no glasses. The only glasses left in the office were upstairs. She headed for the staircase. As she rounded the wall she felt her left foot catch on something, then she was stumbling forward, falling, her arms flailing wildly.<p>

Time shifted to slow-motion. Nancy felt herself twist in mid-air trying to right herself, regain her balance, anything, just keep her feet under her. It wasn't going to happen. She was going down.

She felt the sharp impact of the floor against her hips, her right elbow, and the palm of her right hand.

Then she saw him, a man, coming at her fast, a gun in his hands. The gun was turned around, the hard, metal butt faced her.

Her last clear image was the butt of the gun coming at her head.

_CRACK._

Everything went black.

* * *

><p>Nancy came to on the floor. The room swam in front of her then slowly came into focus. Her head throbbed and she felt the trickle of blood on her forehead. A man was bent over her smiling – a nasty, lecherous smile. The bandage on his left cheek told Nancy this was Boris. Joe's shot, she thought, it got Boris on the cheek.<p>

Boris was not a pleasant sight to wake up to. He had dark gray teeth and a face marred by scars and scabs. And that bandage – it looked like it needed to be changed.

Boris ran the back of a hand lightly over her cheek. His hand was rough and dry. His eyes cold and empty – predator eyes – moved over her body, eyeing her like she was a piece of merchandise and he was deciding how much of it he wanted to sample.

Nancy wondered how long she had been unconscious and what, if anything, he had done to her while she was out. Had he touched her in ways she never wanted to think about? A lump formed in her throat, she swallowed over it, tried to sit up, and realized she couldn't. She was handcuffed at the wrists and her legs were tied together with rope just above the knees. She rolled onto an elbow and forced her body up a little, off the floor.

Boris spoke. "You have something I want."

Nancy knew he meant the package, but his lewd expression said it could be that or something else. Fear held her speechless and the lurid gleam in his eyes made her skin crawl. He stretched a hand toward her, extended a dirty index finger, pressed it against her forehead and pushed her head down, forcing her to lie on the floor again. His fingers were mottled with black and brown stains and smelled of gun oil. The index finger, centered on her forehead, felt like it was burning a hole in her skin.

She lay there staring at him. He ran the finger down her forehead, along the bridge of her nose, and over her lips. The pressure of the finger pulled down her bottom lip. He drew back his hand allowing the lip to pop back into place.

She wanted to throw up, turn away, spit, scream, tear his eyes out. But she did nothing. To react would entice him. She could see it in his eyes. To show disgust would fuel the rage boiling beneath his scarred and pitted surface.

She remained calm. He hadn't killed her, so that meant he needed her for something. Leverage – her life in exchange for the package.

He stood and peered down at her.

"Get in chair." He motioned with his gun toward her red swivel chair.

How? She was handcuffed and tied at the knees.

She rolled onto her hands and knees and slowly worked her way to the chair moving like an inchworm. She felt him watching her backside, enjoying the show, delighting in her humiliation. Her cheeks burned and her stomach churned with hate. She was glad the chair was only three feet away.

When she got to it she put her elbows on the seat, tucked her toes under and pushed her legs up. She stood, swaying as a wave of dizziness hit her. She waited for the room to stop spinning then took small steps, all she could manage, and slowly turned until her back was to the chair. She cautiously eased herself onto the seat.

Boris came closer. "Now we play game," he said.

Nancy sneered.

He got close, pointed the gun at her face, dead center. She drew back, pushing hard with her feet pressing herself against the back of the chair. The barrel of the gun was short, maybe five inches long, and formed a perfect circle two inches from her face.

"Where's package?" His eyes bored into her daring her to lie.

Nancy thought about her options. Answer and be shot. Don't answer and be shot. Really no options. Leverage, she thought. He needs me alive. If he shoots me, he'll shoot to maim, not kill. Still, not good. This was a no win situation.

In as calm a voice as she could muster she said, "Where's Tasha?"

One corner of Boris' mouth lifted in an amused grin. "This not a talk show. I ask questions. You answer." He lifted the gun over his shoulder and feinted like he was going to hit her in the head with the butt.

She flinched and he laughed. There was too much pleasure in that laugh.

Hate and anger filled her gut. He had complete control, and he knew it and loved it. He wallowed in it savoring every flinch, every fearful look, every bit of hate and despair and anguish his victims showed.

She was merely a pawn in his bizarre game.

"Again," he snarled. "Where's package?"

Nancy thought about her options again. She decided she wasn't going to play this game. She knew he wasn't going to kill her. Not yet, anyway.

She clamped her lips into a hard, straight line and stared at the far wall. She would remain mute. She braced herself for what may come. What would it be? The hard butt of the gun hitting her in the head? Maybe a shot in an arm? Or maybe a shot in a leg?

None of those things happened. A key sounded at the back door.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you dear reviewers for your wonderful comments. You are giving me the exact feedback I need. I like hearing you can visualize the story in your head, you like the reality of the story and the complexity of the characters. These are all things I'm trying to do and I'm happy to hear I've succeeded in some small way._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Frank walked into the office fumbling with his jacket, putting his keys in a pocket. He rounded the staircase, looked up, and stopped dead in his tracks. The blood drained from his face. Nancy sat in her red chair handcuffed. Pure unrelenting terror filled her dark blue eyes.

Boris stood behind her with a submachine gun pressed to her head. Frank's mind rattled off the gun's stats – a Micro Uzi, shoots 1,200 rounds a minute, and is as quiet as a sewing machine. Nobody will hear a thing when you're gunned down. Great.

And how long had Nancy been sitting there with the barrel pressed against the back of her head?

Boris locked eyes with Frank. Those were the coldest, blackest eyes Frank had ever seen. It was like looking into a bottomless pit. And the most frightening part – there was no soul at the bottom, no humanity at all.

We're dead, Frank thought. This is Boris and he's a cold-blooded killer. He's killed before, he'll kill again, and he _will_ kill us.

Frank's brain scrambled for a solution. How to get the gun? Knock it away? He had to get close enough to even have a chance. He was about ten feet from Nancy and Boris right now. Boris would shoot Nancy before Frank could even finish taking a step.

Boris smiled and ran a rough hand over Nancy's hair. "She pretty. You like? Maybe she girlfriend?" The Russian accent was thick.

Frank found his voice. It was barely a whisper. "What do you want?"

Boris gave an amused chuckle. "Oh, I like you. You get right to business."

Frank exchanged a glance with Nancy. Her eyes held an apology. Frank understood. She was sorry he was in danger, too. He saw the trickle of blood on her forehead. It started at her hairline and made a wavy path down to her left brow.

Primal rage charged through his veins, but he forced it back down. He had to stay focused. He had to get them out of this. He looked at the Micro Uzi again and his heart pounded like a fist trying to punch its way out of his chest. Keep calm he warned himself. Think rationally. You're going to have to make a move, put all that martial arts training to use.

The good news is you've got at least three inches on this guy. You're six-one, he's about five-ten. It looks like he weighs about the same as you, two hundred pounds, maybe a little more. His arms are muscular – show muscles really – this guy lifts some weights, but he's soft around the middle, he doesn't fight. Of course he doesn't have to fight, he's got a gun – a submachine gun for God's sake – he mows people down then calmly walks away.

Frank did the math. With the weapon Boris had the advantage, get rid of the weapon and Frank had the advantage. Frank figured Boris had never really had to fight. He's accustomed to getting by on his weapon and probably his reputation.

Good choice of weapon though. Frank had to hand it to him there.

Boris spoke pulling Frank out of his thoughts. "Take off jacket."

Thank you, Frank wanted to say. He wanted the jacket off. Without it he could move better, faster, and throw a good strong punch.

Frank shrugged off his jacket and, without looking, tossed it behind him on his desk.

"Rise arms," Boris said.

Frank did. Boris saw Frank's Beretta strapped in his hip holster.

"Take out gun," Boris said.

Frank had figured that was coming and knew what was next.

"Drop gun and kick," Boris said. He kept the Uzi pressed firmly against Nancy's head.

Frank dropped the gun and kicked it – hard. It went sliding across the hardwood floor, hit the bottom of the metal staircase with a loud _ping_, bounced off, and hit the wall behind his desk. It spun like a top for a long moment then stopped.

Nancy eyed the gun with a sinking heart.

Frank worked out his attack plan. Kick the submachine gun with his right foot, throw a punch to Boris' throat with his left hand, throw a palm strike to Boris' nose with his right hand, then finish off with a kick to the groin.

Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick.

You can do it, Frank told himself. You _have_ to do it. This guy has absolutely no intention of letting you and Nancy live. You know that. Once he has what he wants, he _will_ shoot you.

Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick.

Only one problem, Frank had to get close enough to Boris to carry out his plan.

Boris unwittingly offered him the opportunity.

"I want package," Boris said.

Frank took only a second to decide. He pointed at Nancy's desk and said, "It's in the desk." The desk was to his left. Boris and Nancy were to his right and approximately four feet from the desk.

Peripherally he checked on Nancy. Her dark blue eyes held confusion and fear. The package wasn't in the desk. She knew that. He knew that. He knew she had to be wondering what he was up to. He wished he could give her a signal, a message, something. Well, he couldn't. But Nancy's smart, he figured, and she'll roll with the punches however this plays out.

Boris eyed the desk like it was up for sale, like he could tell just by looking at it if it really did have the package. Then his eyes came back to Frank. "Get it," he said.

He's not convinced, Frank thought, but he has to go with it. He doesn't have a choice.

Frank said, "It's in the bottom drawer." He held up his hands and slowly moved toward the desk.

Boris watched him the whole way, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Package better be there," he warned his face hardening.

"Oh, it is," Frank said. "Well, unless she moved it." He saw Nancy's eyes widened in terror. But he stayed calm. "This place did get shot up a few nights ago, and you know, we had to move some things around."

"Shut up," Boris growled. A corner of his upper lip lifted in a snarl giving a partial view of his black teeth. "You lie, she dies. Now. Pop. One shot to head."

Frank stopped and held his hands a little higher, his face a mask of sincerity. "No, no. I'm telling the truth. It's there." He had to sell it, make Boris believe him, trust him. Then, catch Boris off guard.

Boris gave a quick jerk of his head indicating Frank should continue on to the desk. Frank did. Now, he was right where he wanted to be. Close to Boris, and that submachine gun, the one thing standing between him and Nancy's safety.

As he leaned over Frank said, "I'm going to get it now." He acted like he was no threat to Boris. He hoped the Russian was buying it.

Boris let out an exasperated snort. He'd had enough. His muscles were cramping. He'd been standing there holding the gun pressed to Nancy's head for a while. That took sustained effort. He rolled his shoulders, cocked his head to one side, then the other working out the kinks.

And that's when Frank attacked.

He came up fast and stepped into a full frontal kick. He kicked the submachine gun with his right foot – straight out and up – like he was kicking a field goal. The impact tore the gun out of Boris' hands, but not before he pulled the trigger. A spray of bullets peppered the far wall and ceiling. Dust and powder rained down.

Nancy had seen Frank's kick coming and had dove out of the chair. She hit the floor hard, her outstretched arms taking the brunt of the fall. The machine gun pin-wheeled through the air and hit the floor a split-second after she did landing with a loud clatter to her left. She inched toward it.

Frank was on part two of his attack plan. He curled the fingers of his left hand and drove his fist into the side of Boris' throat. Frank was right-handed so the blow lacked power. The Russian swayed, but didn't fall.

Frank stepped in with a palm strike to the nose. It was a vicious blow, his right palm driving through cartilage and crushing it. Boris stumbled back, his nose pouring blood. Frank pressed his advantage. He kicked the Russian in the groin, right footed, then stepped back while Boris jackknifed, gasping and groaning, and went down on his hands and knees.

He's down, but not out, Frank thought. I need to finish him off.

_Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack._

Boris groaned. Blood dripped from his smashed nose and formed a small puddle on the hardwood floor.

"Get up," Frank growled through gritted teeth, his hands fisted, his neck muscles bunched and bulging. He wanted to punch Boris right in the gut, drop him once and for all.

Boris sputtered and spit out a mouth full of blood. Then he chuckled. He chuckled with insane delight.

What was so funny Frank couldn't say.

Nancy sat on the floor beside Frank's desk clutching the Uzi in her handcuffed hands. She was ready to use it if needed. Only one problem, she couldn't aim very well given the handcuffs. That worried her, but it looked like Frank had the upper hand at the moment so she watched and waited.

A wavering, unsteady Boris got to his feet still chuckling. "So, you think you can fight? Huh? Big, tough, American," he spat out the words in a spray of blood and smiled. His rotted teeth were covered in crimson and he looked like what he was – a mad man.

"Keys to the handcuffs," Frank said, an icy edge to his voice, a fist up and ready. "Now."

"Screw you," Boris yelled. He was hunched and breathing hard. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Frank rolled his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, "Last chance. Keys."

"You no hear so good." Boris wiped more blood off his mouth. "Screw you."

Frank couldn't believe it. After the beating this guy took he should be down and hurting, not looking like he was ready for more.

But Boris was still very much in this fight.

Then Frank got a good look at the Russian's eyes and it all came together in one horrifying second. His pupils were as tiny as pinheads. He had all the tell-tale signs – pockmarked face with recent scabs and rotten teeth. Boris was a meth user, maybe an addict. Meth made him twice as dangerous. Meth filled people with rage and gave them superhuman strength.

Frank chided himself. He should have finished Boris off when he was down.

_Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack._

With a slight sway the left-handed Boris stepped back on his left foot and pulled back his left arm. Frank saw the fist coming and dodged the blow. Boris came right back at him with a big roundhouse punch. Frank ducked and the fist sailed over his head.

Boris kept swinging – wild, random, out of control punches. Punch after punch. There was plenty of power in those punches and pure visceral rage. Frank danced on the balls of his feet dodging and ducking the blows, stepping and weaving – left – right – and back. Frank was conserving energy. Boris was expending it.

But Frank knew he had to bring the Russian to his knees again.

He thought about the first rule of hand-to-hand combat. Avoid the hard body parts and concentrate on the soft, pain sensitive areas. Frank picked his target accordingly and got ready. He dodged another blow then twisted from the waist into a low sidearm punch aimed at the center of Boris' chest. The blow was hard, and fast, and right on target. It plowed into Boris' solar plexus, the soft fleshy area below the pectorals and above the abdominals, knocking the air out of his lungs. Shock and pain registered on the Russian's face. He lost all bodily coordination and fell on his knees sagging forward gasping for breath and reeling in pain.

But he wasn't completely down.

_Never leave the enemy capable of a counter-attack._

Boris was dazed and wobbly and his nose a bloody mess. Frank had to finish him off this time. He planted his feet and delivered a hard kick to the face. It wasn't a _let me knock him out_ kick. It was a savage, teeth shattering, jaw breaking kick. Boris' head snapped to the side then whipped back around and he slumped on the floor like he was melting into it.

Frank hovered over him watching for movement. Blood poured from Boris' nose and mouth. He twitched, involuntary twitches, his body's response to the massive trauma it had just suffered. Frank drew back a fist.

"Frank," Nancy yelled, her voice stopping him cold. "He's down. He's out."

Frank stepped back.

"Yeah. Yeah. I know," he mumbled his hand still fisted.

He forced his fingers to uncurl. Relax, calm down, he told himself. Boris is down for good. Frank took a long, slow breath and counted to ten. He felt his shoulders come down. He also felt Nancy's eyes on him. She had watched him take down Boris in a brutal manner. How did she feel about that?

He turned to her.

She held up her handcuffed wrists. "The keys."

"Yeah, got it." He noticed she was tied at the thighs, too. He dug through Boris' top pockets, came up with the keys and headed over to Nancy. He unlocked the cuffs and helped her untie the rope around her thighs. He put a hand under her elbow and helped her up. She rubbed her red wrists.

Frank searched her face. The fear and terror were gone, but she was pale. "You okay?"

Nancy nodded, started to tear up, fought it, then threw her arms around Frank's neck. She hugged him tight needing to feel him next to her – feel his warmth and strength – feel secure. She felt his strong arms circle her back and pull her close. His body was hot from the fight with Boris.

He held her, kissed the top of her head, and said, "You sure you're okay?"

She clung to him for another moment then broke away, swatted at a threatening tear and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Really. Just a bit of a headache."

He didn't push, her detective mask had fallen in place and the color was coming back to her face. "Let me take a look at that wound." With two fingers, Frank gently brushed aside strands of strawberry blonde hair and examined the swelling on her forehead. "How'd it happen?"

The skin was split about half an inch and a thin line of blood flowed from the split. It made a wavy path to her left eyebrow, flowed along the brow and down her cheek.

Nancy blushed remembering how easily Boris had overtaken her. "He was already in the office when I returned. Hidden behind the wall next to the staircase." She pointed at Boris' hiding spot. "He caught me by surprise when I headed upstairs. Tripped me, and once I was down, hit me with the gun. I was out for a while. I'm not sure how long."

"You're going to have a nice goose egg Nan, but in my non-professional opinion, you don't need stitches. You could have a concussion though, since you were unconscious for a while you. We should probably get you checked at a hospital."

Nancy shook her head and hugged herself. "No hospital. I'm fine – really."

Frank went to his desk. His jacket lay crumpled on the top. He dug through one of the pockets and withdrew a penlight. He switched it on and stepped up to Nancy. She drew back.

"Just a quick check," he said.

She squinted in the harsh beam he shone over her eyes.

Frank held up an index finger. "Follow my finger." He moved the finger up and down, left and right.

Nancy followed the movement with her eyes.

Frank turned off the penlight. "I think you're okay. Your pupils reacted normally to the light and you tracked my finger with no problem."

"Like I said. I'm fine." Nancy took a deep breath. "But he's not." She nodded with her chin at Boris' lifeless body. "We need to call 911."

"Not yet." Frank retrieved his gun from the floor, returned it to his hip holster then headed for Boris. "I want to finish checking his pockets, see what we find."

Frank went down on one knee next to Boris. He felt in Boris' pockets, found the lock pick tools, pulled them out and held them up. "Now we know how he got in." He laid the tools on the floor then dug through the pockets some more and found the cell phone. He held it up. "Now this, this is valuable."

He opened the phone and scrolled through the menus. Nancy knelt beside him, their shoulders touching. She leaned her head close to his as they viewed the small screen. Frank brought up the address list.

Nancy said, "We should copy down the names and numbers."

"No need," Frank said. "We're keeping the phone."

"Huh? We can't do that. It's evidence. We have to turn it over to the police."

Frank snapped the phone shut. "Well, we're not going to. We're working a case and the phone is vital to our investigation."

Nancy frowned at Frank, a wrinkle forming between her eyes. "Are you crazy?"

Frank smiled. "Only slightly." He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

Nancy appreciated the kiss, but the phone was another story. She pushed herself off the floor. "I'm not sure about this – keeping the phone."

Frank got to his feet. "Don't worry about it. We can always turn the phone in later, say we found it outside behind a bush or something."

Nancy thought that over and let out resigned puff of breath. "Okay." She glanced at Boris again and felt a chill. She wanted him gone. "But we really need to call an ambulance and the police." She hugged herself and rubbed her arms trying to warm up.

Frank picked up on Nancy's discomfort. He looked at Boris. A steady stream of blood flowed from the lumpy mass that used to be his nose. "You're right. I'll make the calls."

"Thanks, I'm going to wash my face, find a band-aid, and get some ibuprofen." Nancy trudged toward the downstairs bathroom, Joe's bathroom. She took the long way around her desk, staying as far away from Boris as possible.

Frank made the calls.

A few minutes later Nancy emerged from the bathroom with a clean face and a band-aid taped to her forehead. She had two ibuprofen tablets in her hand. She headed upstairs to finally get that glass of water. When she came downstairs Frank was leaning against his desk perusing Boris' phone.

Frank looked up. "Who do you suppose X is?"

"Just X?"

"Just X."

"Someone important. Someone who doesn't want his real name used or known," Nancy said.

"I agree. And he's the only one with just an initial. Everybody else has a name .. Ivan, Wade, Luka."

"Hey. Wait. Ivan, Wade, Luke?" Nancy leaned in for a closer view of the screen.

"Luka," Frank corrected and tilted the phone so Nancy could see.

"Luke, Luka, whatever. Becca Rosen mentioned those same names today when Detective Cutter and I interviewed her. According to her, Kurt was involved with some major drug dealers. Becca's meeting Cutter tomorrow morning at the station to go through mug shots. Cutter said he'd let me know if she IDs anyone."

Frank grunted and shut the phone. "He'll let you know? Yeah, right. Did he have any information on Boris, like maybe an address?"

"No." Nancy sensed Frank's frustration with Cutter. "But he did tell me the bullet that killed Kurt Swanson was a 9mm."

Frank sighed. "The most common caliber in the world. Heck, that Micro Uzi uses 9mm rounds." He gestured at the submachine lying on the floor beside his desk.

"I know. But at least now the police have a weapon to test." Nancy paused, eyed Frank suspiciously. "We are giving them the gun, aren't we?"

He smiled briefly. "Yes. It's probably the gun he used to shoot up our office on Thursday night. And look, he managed to do that again." Frank pointed at the ceiling and the wall behind his desk.

Nancy leaned on the desk next to Frank. "We'll have to add this damage to the insurance claim."

* * *

><p>Ivan sat in the stolen sedan wondering if he should call Boris. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. If he was wrong then he would be in big trouble with Boris. Not something he wanted.<p>

But still, where was the man? It had been fifty minutes since Ivan left Boris in the alley. Plenty of time to get in, search, and get out. Even to grab the girl. It didn't take that long to knock her out, tie her up, and make a call.

Ivan decided to drive around the block again. His eighth trip. By now he knew every stoplight, every street name, and every dip and crack in the pavement. And he hated each and every one of them.

He completed the eighth trip and still, no word from Boris. Ivan parked down the street from the alley's entrance and contemplated his next move. The only change Ivan had noticed in all his trips around the block was the office light. The first few times he'd passed the office door it had been dark. Somewhere around the fifth trip he noticed the light was on.

Ivan was a good foot soldier. He was capable, always followed orders, and never asked questions. But now he was presented with a situation that forced him to ask questions. Had Boris turned on the light or had someone from the office turned on the light? If someone from the office had turned it on, then maybe Boris was still hiding inside, waiting for a chance to strike – or escape.

Ivan checked the clock on the car's dashboard. It had been one hour since he'd left Boris. Ivan stared at his cell phone lying on the passenger's seat. He wished it would buzz. It didn't. What should he do?

He decided to go around the block again. His ninth trip. He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. He merged into the slow moving traffic. The car's fuel gauge read one fourth of a tank. If this kept up he would need more gas. He drove slow and peered down the alley. He spotted a beat-up truck parked outside what he thought was the fifth door.

Ivan wondered how long it had been there.

More questions. Not good for a man who didn't like questions.

* * *

><p>Frank slid Boris' phone into his pants pocket and pulled out his own. "I need to call Yuri," he told Nancy. He scrolled down his screen and punched in a number.<p>

Nancy stared at Boris. He twitched – an arm, then a leg. She grimaced. His head rolled to the side and he moaned. She wished the ambulance would hurry up and get there.

Yuri answered on the first ring. "Yuri."

Frank said, "Good news, I found Boris."

There was cautious excitement in Yuri's voice. "Where?"

"He's lying on my office floor bleeding."

"Is he alive?" Yuri asked.

"Yes. An ambulance is on the way. I think he's in for an extended hospital stay. That'll give us, and the police, plenty of time to question him."

"What about Tasha?" Yuri said.

Frank paused and took a breath. "I _may_ know where she is."

"I'm on my way."

The phone connection went dead.

Frank turned to Nancy and said, "Yuri's on his way.

Nancy frowned. "You know where Tasha is?"

"_Maybe_." Frank stressed the word. "The house Boris is renting looks like a good candidate. It's in an older neighborhood on a good sized lot with plenty of trees. Plus, it has a basement."

"We have to check it out." Nancy's eyes lit up.

"We will." Frank put his phone in his pocket. "We'll go tonight. But first, we need to assemble the team. Yuri's on his way, so we just need Joe."

The wail of an ambulance cut off further conversation.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thanks for the awesome reviews. They really make my day. _

* * *

><p>Chapter 13<p>

Ivan sat in the stolen sedan, parked several blocks from the Endeavor Detective Agency, thinking about what he'd seen – Boris taken away in an ambulance. At first, Ivan hadn't been sure it was Boris on the gurney that came out of the Endeavor's front door. Ivan had had to push and shove his way through the gathering crowd, gotten as close as he dared, and then, and only then, had he seen it was Boris. He hadn't identified Boris by his face, no, that had been a bloody mess. He'd recognized the boots and pants.

Once Ivan knew it was Boris, he'd turned and high-tailed it out of there, shoving and pushing his way back through the crowd. He'd gotten to the sedan, tumbled in it and sped away, had driven in circles, half in shock, not knowing what to do. Finally, he'd pulled over, took a deep breath and started thinking, contemplating what he should do next. The answer came to him. He had to do something he'd never done before – call Mr. X.

Boris had always been the contact man, the guy in charge. Ivan was the sidekick. Some people might not like being labeled a sidekick. Ivan was not one of those people. The way he saw it, the guy in charge carried all the weight, held all the responsibility. Anything that went wrong rested squarely on the _guy in charge's_ shoulders. The sidekick bore little, or no, responsibility and that's the way Ivan liked things.

However, in this situation Ivan had no choice. He had to contact Mr. X, had to let him know what had happened to Boris. Besides, Ivan needed instructions. Without instructions he was worthless.

His hand trembled as he punched in the number and raised the phone to his face.

The call surprised Mr. X. He couldn't believe Ivan was calling or what Ivan was saying.

"What? Are you positive?" Mr. X asked a second time disbelief ringing in his voice.

Ivan couldn't think of any other way to say what he'd already said, so he simply repeated himself. "Yes. Boris is down. Hurt bad. Blood everywhere. They took him away in an ambulance."

Not exactly elegant, but accurate.

Mr. X stared into the distance pondering Ivan's words. Boris hurt? Taken away in an ambulance? Mr. X had known Boris for over ten years and no one had ever taken Boris down. No one. Ever. It had always been Boris who left someone in a bloody heap. Usually a dead bloody heap.

Mr. X sighed, a sigh of regret that started in his gut, traveled up his body, and heaved his chest. Boris must have gotten too cocky, too sure of himself. It happens to the best of them, Mr. X thought shaking his head sadly. His grief for Boris was short lived. There was business to attend to and Ivan awaited instructions. Mr. X gave them, short and quick, then terminated the call. He had other calls to make. The game had changed and players needed to be rearranged.

* * *

><p>Joe and Vanessa arrived at the office as Boris was being loaded into the ambulance. Frank gave Joe a detailed account of what had happened. Vanessa, standing beside Joe, listened, concern furrowing her features. She eyed Frank, Nancy, and the office soberly then looked at Joe, gave a nervous shake of her head, and said something about her aunt and uncle and dinner plans.<p>

Joe couldn't help but wonder if it was true, the sudden, all too convenient dinner plans. Or did Vanessa's sudden desire to leave have something to do with Nancy's bruised forehead, the blood on the floor, and the new bullet holes in the wall and ceiling? Not that he could blame her. It was a lot to take in.

Before he could say anything, she pressed up against him and whispered, "You live a very dangerous life Joe Hardy."

The musky scent of her perfume tickled his nose and his arm tingled where her breast brushed against it. He tried to read her face. A slight frown creased her brow, but other than that she gave him nothing to read. She stared at him, eyes searching his, waiting for him to say something. He was unsure, unsure of how she felt about him, the life he led, being a detective, and he stared at her mutely.

Finally, he said, "I'll call you tomorrow." He tried to make it sound like a statement, not a question, but wasn't sure he succeeded.

She nodded and walked away, left him standing there feeling empty. He hadn't felt that kind of emptiness in nine years. With great effort, he pushed his feelings aside and focused on the here and now.

In the here and now, Nancy stood in the office leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her chest. "So, what's the plan?" she asked.

It was seven o'clock. The sun had set long ago. An ambulance had come and gone, the police had come and gone, Detective Cutter had come and gone, and everyone had had questions. Nancy and Frank had answered as best they could. They'd said Boris had broken into the office, held Nancy at gunpoint, and Frank had taken him down. Cutter hadn't pushed further, just said Nancy should get some rest and he'd be back in the morning.

Joe, Frank, Nancy, and Yuri stood in the office, all eyes on Frank, waiting. Frank looked at Nancy. Her swollen forehead concerned him. It sported the traditional colors of a bruise – black and blue, but yellow and green were joining the party as well.

Frank said, "You sure you're up for this, Nan?"

She gave him a look that would have withered a lesser man. He was made of pretty stern stuff and merely grinned at her. She may not be one hundred percent, but she was ready. She knew it and he knew it.

"So, what's the plan," she asked again nicely ignoring his question.

Frank moved to his desk, picked up his Beretta, holstered it, and said, "Joe and I go in first. We'll use the truck I rented and park down the street a little ways from Boris' house. We'll check out the street and neighborhood then radio you and Yuri when we're inside. You and Yuri will set up outside, watch the street and house while we're inside."

Yuri nodded. He was dressed all in black like the others and each member of the team wore a bulletproof vest. Nancy's hair was pulled into a high tight ponytail. She scooped a black knit cap off her desk and pulled it over her head hiding her light colored hair.

Frank turned to Joe. "Ready?"

"Yeah." Joe's weapon of choice lay on his desk, a Colt M4 carbine rifle. He'd decided to use something with more firepower and range tonight. The Colt M4 was a proven weapon for combat situations. Its fourteen and a half inch barrel and telescoping stock made it easy to carry and operate in tight quarters. He'd used one in the Army and liked it, felt comfortable with it.

Joe picked up the rifle with his bandaged left hand, Nancy had wrapped an Ace bandage around it for added protection, then picked up a 30 round magazine lying next to the rifle and slipped it into his jacket pocket. A heavy backpack sat on his chair. He picked it up, hefted it onto his shoulder, looked at Frank and said, "Let's go."

Frank, with a backpack draped over his shoulder, nodded and motioned to the back door. The backpacks contained essential gear – bottled water, power bars, Maglites, binoculars, extra ammo, a small first aid kit, and a set of clean clothes.

The team left in two vehicles, Frank and Joe in the rent-a-wreck truck; Nancy and Yuri in Yuri's sleek black Ford Expedition rental.

* * *

><p>Night, the time when street gangs made their patrols. A waning moon watched from above and stars shone brightly.<p>

Frank and Joe sat in the old beater truck watching the house – the house rented by Boris. The house was as dark as the night. No lights shone inside. No lights shone outside.

Frank and Joe got out of the truck and quietly shut the doors. Nothing lit up. The dome light had been turned off. Joe and his Colt M4 rifle went left. Frank and his Beretta went right. Each man walked the length of the block checking the houses on the street, scanning windows, yards, and doors. All appeared peaceful in the neighborhood.

Frank stopped at the end of the block and radioed Joe via their Bluetooths. "I didn't see anything suspicious. I'm heading back to the house."

"Same here," Joe said.

A royal blue sedan turned the corner, came down the street and as it neared Frank, slowed, kept pace with him matching him step for step. Frank heard the mechanical buzz of a car window going down. He glanced to his left, saw two men in the car, both in the front. One man switched on the sedan's interior light. Now Frank saw the men clearly. Both had neck tattoos, pierced eyebrows and wore oversized jackets. A person could hide a lot of things in an oversized jacket.

Gang members, Frank thought. The prison tats were a dead giveaway. The men glared at him and Frank glared back, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. A lone guy at night was an easy mark.

The man closest to Frank, the one in the passenger's seat, smiled and the car rolled to a stop. Frank saw the man's hand dip inside his jacket.

Frank spun, aimed his Beretta straight at the man's head, nice and level. No fear.

The smile fell off the man's face. He stared at Frank and the Beretta for a moment then signaled the driver to move on. Frank watched them go, his Beretta tracking the car the whole way.

When the car was almost out of sight he radioed Joe. "Two gangbangers are headed your way. Once they got a look at my gun they moved on."

"Dark blue sedan?"

"Yeah."

"I see'em. They're cruising past. No trouble here."

* * *

><p>Frank and Joe met up at the front door of the house. They stood on the dark porch, peered in a window, but couldn't see anything. Frank tried the knob. "Locked," he said.<p>

"I brought my tools. I can pick the lock," Joe said.

Frank nudged his brother aside, stepped back, lifted his right leg and smashed his right heel into the door just below the knob. The door frame splintered with a loud crack and the door opened.

"Okay, that works, too," Joe said.

"And it's faster," Frank said over his shoulder. "Come on." He motioned for Joe to follow him into the house.

They stepped into a small entry, stood stock-still, and listened. Silence. Layers of stale, musty air filled the house. Too many lives had played out in this home.

Frank called out, "Police. Anybody home?"

The brothers waited, bodies tense, weapons ready.

No response.

Frank called out again, louder, "Police. Anybody home?"

Again nothing. Frank pushed the front door shut with his foot. He and Joe took out their Maglites and played the beams around the room, a living room. A dilapidated sofa took up one wall and a low wooden table sat in front of the sofa.

Frank stepped toward the table and let out a low whistle. The beam of his Maglite illuminated the items on the table. "AK-47. Heavy-duty stuff. There's a SIG and a HS 2000 semi-automatic pistol, too."

Joe played his light along the floor next to the sofa. "Plenty of ammo here. Looks like our guy meant business."

Boxes of 9mm ammunition were stacked beside the sofa. Eight olive colored cases in all. Each printed with Cyrillic letters and red stars. Next to the ammunition was a pile of dirty rags, bottles of cleaning fluid, and an empty vodka bottle.

Frank contacted Nancy and Yuri via the Bluetooths. "We're in. Looks like no one's home. We're going to search the house."

Yuri said, "Miss Drew and I are in position." He and Nancy were stationed on opposite sides of the house.

Frank and Joe did a quick search of the ground floor. Not much to see, a half-bath, in desperate need of cleaning, a tiny kitchen and a dining room. The dining room had an old Formica dinette table and one chair. The table looked lonely with just the one chair. Frank and Joe got the impression no one used the room. A fine layer of dust covered the table.

The brothers decided to divide and conquer. Frank went upstairs, Joe went downstairs.

Frank searched the first bedroom on his left. It was small and messy and the only piece of furniture in it was a chair. The chair matched the dinette set in the dining room. A mattress was on the floor with a sleeping bag on top of it. There was one pillow, but no pillow case or sheets, or blankets. Empty vodka bottles, maybe ten of them, were lined up nice and straight along one wall. They looked like they were on display, like the owner was proud of them, of what he'd consumed. Frank shook his head and turned away. Then something more alarming caught his attention – hollowed out ball-point pens. Meth addicts used such pens to carry and snort finely crushed Meth. Not a good thing to find, but it confirmed Frank's suspicion that Boris was a Meth user.

Frank scanned the room. Clothes were strewn everywhere – on the mattress, on the floor, and on the chair. Frank looked under the clothes, under the mattress, and in the closet, but found nothing of interest.

The second bedroom was small and neat. This room had a real bed with a box-spring and mattress and sheets and blankets and pillows – two pillows. Beside the bed was a nightstand with an alarm clock slash CD player. Several CDs were stacked next to the clock.

No clothes on the bed, the floor, or the chair. The chair in this room matched the chair in the first bedroom and the dinette set in the dining room. Frank slid the closet door open. Neatly folded clothes (t-shirts, socks, and underwear) were stacked on, and in, milk crates. A couple of expensive looking shirts and three pairs of designer jeans hung above the crates. Frank fingered one of the shirts. Silk. Must be paid well, Frank thought.

On the floor, and leaning against one of the milk crates, was a large backpack. Everything the guy owned could fit in the backpack and he could be gone at a moment's notice. But since everything was still here, in the house, Frank figured he'd be back.

_And we'll be ready for him. _

Frank searched the third and last bedroom. It was smaller than the first two – not much bigger than a closet, and was completely empty.

The final stop was the bathroom. Frank found two toothbrushes, two kinds of toothpaste, two towels, and two razors. Two occupants Frank figured. He knew one – Boris. Who was the other?

And where was he?

Frank radioed the team. "Looks like two men live here. Boris and someone else."

Yuri said, "Miss Drew and I are watching the street. We'll be ready if he shows."

Frank said, "Copy that. Joe's searching the basement."

* * *

><p>Joe stood at the bottom of a narrow staircase, his rifle in his right hand, his index finger on the trigger, the Maglite in his bandaged left hand. The basement was a black pit, cold and damp. Joe played the beam of his Maglite around the large empty space. The floor was dirt, no tiles or hardwood down here, just dirt. The foul odor of mold hung in the air.<p>

There was a door to Joe's left and he moved toward it, rifle ready. He got to the door, leaned close, and listened. Nothing. He tried the knob and it turned. He pushed the door open with his foot, stepped back and waited. No sound or movement came from within. He led with the Maglite and rifle and entered the room. It was a eight-by-ten windowless square. It was dank, icy cold and stank. The smell hit Joe like a physical force causing him to back up a step. He let a wave of nausea pass then deciphered the smells – urine, greasy food, sweat, and fear.

He saw a light switch and flipped it on. A low-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the space. Eerie shadows filled the room. A thin filthy mattress lay on the dirt floor. No sheets, no blanket, no pillow. No frills, Joe thought. This had been a prison – a very uncomfortable, very unpleasant prison.

A metal chair, matching the dinette set in the dining room, sat in the middle of the room. Joe didn't like the look, or feel, of the chair – the way it was situated. Chairs in the middle of rooms meant interrogations – unpleasant interrogations.

Bags from fast food places were shoved tight in a corner. Empty water bottles, five to be exact, were shoved in the corner, too. Joe did the math. Tasha had been kidnapped Wednesday at midnight or Thursday morning depending on how you looked at it. Her captors must have given her two bottles a day – two on Thursday, two on Friday, and one today, Saturday – then they'd moved her. Probably late this afternoon, after they'd found out about Boris.

Joe pushed the mattress aside with his foot and looked at the ground. He switched his Maglite to bright, played the beam over the dirt, and saw something glint. He squatted and got closer. Someone had dug a small hole in the dirt, placed something in it, and covered it up with dirt. Joe had disturbed the dirt when he moved the mattress.

He laid his rifle on the mattress, reached down, brushed more dirt aside and gingerly lifted out a necklace. He held it up, the gold chain looped over his index finger. The necklace, a ruby studded cross, sparkled in the Maglite's beam.

Joe flashed back to the first time he saw Tasha at the office. The ruby studded necklace had been around her neck contrasting nicely with her blue silk blouse.

Joe stood and contacted the team via the Bluetooths. "She was here," he said. "In the basement. I found the room."

He heard a sharp hiss over the line, figured it was Yuri.

Frank said, "Joe, you sure?"

Joe stared at the necklace in the palm of his hand. "Positive. She left a clue, her necklace, the ruby cross. I'm holding it."

Yuri said, "I'm on my way."

Nancy's voice came over the com lines, urgent, "Not yet Yuri. We have company. Lone male approaching from the east."


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. Life got in the way as it likes to do sometimes. This chapter is extra long though._

* * *

><p>Chapter 14<p>

Ivan followed Mr. X's orders to the letter and ditched the stolen sedan in a mini-mart parking lot about four miles from the house. Mr. X had said he would take care of the other problem – the princess.

Ivan, not looking forward to the empty house, or the long walk home, stopped at a greasy hole-in-the-wall and had dinner. It was a small place with low lights and not many customers. The place served beer so he had a few, needed something to warm him up and dull his senses. He preferred a woman for such things, but without a vehicle it was hard to pick up women.

As Ivan finished his third beer he thought about the black van parked in the garage of the house, wished he could use it, but Mr. X had forbidden its use after the shooting at the office, said the police would be looking for it. The lack of a vehicle had forced Boris to steal the sedan this morning. They'd needed a car for the job at the office.

Ivan downed the last of his beer and eyed the waitress, a shapely blonde with luminous sea-green eyes and a slightly crooked nose. She'd been giving him a 'come on' look all evening and he wouldn't mind taking her home, but without a vehicle, he wasn't taking anybody anywhere.

She was good at reading the customers, sensed he was ready to leave and came over to his table. "How're you doing? Need anything else, or will that be it?"

His eyes slowly raked over her body. "I go. Maybe come back tomorrow."

She leaned over and picked up his empty beer glass giving him a good view of her chest in the process. "I'll be here. I work till closing at nine PM."

He gave her a slight nod and the shadow of a grin then paid and left.

An hour and a half later, Ivan strolled toward the house, head down, hunched against the cold, hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket. The moon and streetlamps lit his way. He was thinking about disobeying orders, thinking about taking the van and going back to the restaurant, seeing that waitress. Maybe she'd be willing to come home with him – keep him company, warm him up, and help him forget the day – forget Boris – forget his bloody face.

Lost in his thoughts, Ivan started up the cement path leading to the front door, didn't see Nancy and Yuri hidden in the shadows of a tall tree in the side yard.

Someone shouted in Russian. Startled, Ivan stopped, spun in the direction of the voice and saw a large figure come out of the shadows. He thought it might be Luka or Wade, but then remembered that neither of them spoke Russian.

Another figure emerged, this one shorter, slender. Ivan yanked his hands out of his pockets and backed up.

"On the ground, on the ground," the tall figure shouted in Russian.

Sounds like a cop, Ivan thought. But – a Russian cop? Here? Didn't make any sense and Ivan wasn't about to stick around and figure it out. He turned and bolted down the sidewalk, his jacket flapping wildly at his sides. He could feel the big Russian behind him, could hear his shoes pounding the pavement. A hand brushed his shoulder and Ivan jerked to the left. Bad move, he stumbled and lost his balance. That's all it took, the big Russian grabbed him by the arm and yanked him backward. Ivan hit the ground hard, felt the impact along his left side. The big Russian landed next to him, grabbed him, and tried to get him in a headlock.

Ivan fought like a feral dog, scratching, clawing, and punching. He'd learned to fight when he was young, in back alleys in the Ukraine – brutal, down and dirty street fighting where anything goes. The one and only rule – never let the other guy pin you to the ground. Once you're pinned, the fight's over, and you lose.

Ivan clawed at Yuri's head, pulled on an ear, scratched him on the cheek, clawed at his nose, tried to stick his thumbs in Yuri's eyes. Yuri, overwhelmed by the ferociousness of the attack, pulled away, threw his left arm up to protect his face and punched with his right. The men were too close, Yuri couldn't get any extension on his punches, couldn't put any real power in them. Ivan ignored the weak blows that struck his chest and face. He'd endured much worse in much tougher fights. He focused on his target – Yuri's throat. He saw an opening and took it, landed a decent blow, enough to gag Yuri and get him to release his hold. Ivan seized the opportunity, pushed Yuri off of him and scrambled to his feet.

He came face to face with the short, slender figure. A female, he realized, surprised. Didn't matter, she was part of this, so he'd take her down. He cocked a fist and launched a right hook at her face. She leaned to the side, let the fist sail past her shoulder then took half a step forward and twisted at the waist pulling the power from her legs up through her body, and drove her fist into his stomach. She powered through it, didn't hold back. The blow was solid and hard, and caught Ivan completely off-guard. He doubled over clutching his stomach. Nancy circled to the right, brought her right leg up into a big sweeping kick and clipped him at the back of the knees dumping him on the ground.

Nancy stood over Ivan splayed face-up on the ground, half on the sidewalk, half in someone's front yard. She unhooked a pair of flexicuffs from her belt and bent next to him. Yuri, somewhat recovered, waved Nancy aside then rolled Ivan onto his stomach, straddled him, and wrestled both of his arms behind his back, none too gently. Spikes of white hot pain raced up Ivan's arms. He yelped and bucked trying to get Yuri off his back.

Yuri took a deep breath, let it out, leaned over Ivan and growled, "Stop moving or I break both your arms." To prove his point, he wrenched Ivan's arms tighter behind his back. Ivan let out a sharp howl, thought his arms might snap in two, and stopped struggling, just lay there panting as questions exploded in his brain. Who were these people? What did they want?

Yuri handcuffed him, hauled him to his feet, and said, "Now, we go to house and talk." He shoved Ivan onto the sidewalk. To Nancy, he said, "Nice moves."

She smiled. "Thanks." She took Ivan's other arm and helped Yuri guide him toward the rented house.

Ivan moaned as he was forced along the sidewalk. His stomach hurt, his arms hurt and he had no idea what awaited him at the house, wasn't sure he wanted to find out either. He wondered what the waitress was doing.

* * *

><p>Frank met the trio at the front door and led them to the dining room where Joe waited, rifle in hand. The small musty room became even smaller as five people crowded into it. The old fashioned domed ceiling light cast a golden glow over the group.<p>

Frank asked Yuri, "You search him?"

"No." Yuri shoved Ivan toward the table and lone chair.

Ivan fell against the table, managed to push himself upright, then stood there, none to steady, his eyes darting around the room taking everything in.

Frank eyed Ivan's jacket – the soft subtle leather in a rich burnished brown. Probably cost five hundred dollars or more, Frank thought. Definitely paid well.

Frank nodded at Joe. "Search him."

Joe laid his rifle on the table. Yuri and Frank stood by, watching, hands on their guns as Joe searched Ivan. Nancy went to help Joe.

Joe dug through Ivan's jacket pockets, found a set of keys and handed them to Nancy. She looked them over, said, "Looks like a house key and a car key," then laid them on the table.

Joe searched Ivan's pants pockets, found a pocket knife and a cell phone, and handed them to Nancy. She put the knife on the table, flipped the phone open and scanned the screen.

Joe found Ivan's wallet, tossed it on the table, then bent and patted Ivan's legs, got to his right ankle and said, "Well, well, well, what have we here?" Joe came up holding a small stainless steel handgun with black polymer grips. "Will you look at this? A PSA pistol. Precision Small Arms. I always wanted one of these." He turned the gun over admiring its workmanship. "A Noveau. Semi-automatic. Nice weapon, holds six rounds, weighs about nine ounces. Cost around four to five hundred new and this one looks brand new. Doesn't look like it's ever been fired."

Joe pressed the stop lever at the base of the grips with his thumb and removed the magazine and looked at it. "Fully loaded. Six rounds." He set the pistol and magazine on the table and said, "That's all he's got."

Frank nodded and Joe turned to Ivan, placed his hands on the Russian's shoulders, and pushed him forcefully into the dining room's only chair.

Nancy looked up from the cell phone screen. "Well, he has more friends than Boris." She lowered her head and looked at Ivan, an eyebrow arching. "And it looks like he likes the ladies." Nancy studied Ivan. He was about five-eleven, lean and wiry. He had short dark hair, a square face with a pale complexion and ruddy cheeks. A jagged scar ran along his left jaw. His jacket was open and she could see the outline of hard muscles beneath his thin t-shirt.

Ivan returned Nancy's gaze. He didn't mind her checking him out. He rather liked it and he did like the ladies, no argument there. But he knew that wasn't the reason he was handcuffed and surrounded by four armed people.

Frank fixed Ivan with a cold glare, kept his eyes locked on the Russian, as he asked Nancy, "Any familiar names in the cell phone?"

Nancy nodded. "Yeah. Boris, Wade, Luka, Kurt, and X."

"X again," Frank said his jaw tightening. He pulled out Boris' cell phone, brought up the names and scanned them. "Ivan, Wade, Luka, X."

Joe was at the table going through the wallet. He pulled out a driver's license. "Our friend here is Ivan Tarasenko. Drivers license was issued three weeks ago." Joe laid the license on the table, pulled out a wad of bills and counted them. "Over four hundred dollars in cash." He tossed the money on the table. "Looks like Ivan is paid well for his services."

Yuri stepped close to Ivan. "And what are those services?" His eyes demanded an answer, but none came.

Ivan leaned back in the chair and looked like he was bored with the proceedings and his four captors.

Over his shoulder, Yuri asked Joe, "Where's the necklace you found?"

Joe took it out of his pants pocket and handed it over. Yuri took it carefully. Anger, worry, and fear flickered across his face. He bent in front of Ivan and held the necklace up to him. "This was found in the basement, in the room where you kept the princess – Tasha." His voice was like cut glass, sharp, low, and menacing.

Ivan's face hardened a little.

Frank thought about what he'd read about Russian criminals. They were tough, ruthless, and lived by a strict set of rules. They had to sever all ties with their family and friends. Their only loyalty lay with the organization. The organization came first, second, and last. You protected it with your life – literally.

Frank figured they were going to have to play hardball with Ivan. He laid Boris' phone on the table, shouldered past Yuri, took out his Beretta and leveled it at Ivan's chest. "Okay tough guy we need answers and we need them now. Who's X?"

In spite of his discomfort, Ivan grinned. His eyes went to half mast and he said nothing.

Frank hadn't expected an answer. Not yet. "I'm sure you understand English so let's try this again." Frank lowered his Beretta and aimed it at Ivan's right knee. "How much do you like walking?"

Ivan's face turned to granite, his eyes said, _I dare you_.

Joe, standing beside the table, said, "Get real. If you shoot out a knee we won't get any information. All he'll be doing is screaming like a baby."

Yuri nodded and tilted his head toward Joe. "He's right. You start with the fingers. Break them one by one. Painful, but he can still talk."

Frank looked from Yuri to Joe and shook his head. "You know what? We don't need this S.O.B. We have everything we need right here." He grabbed Ivan's phone off the table where Nancy had laid it. "X's number. All we have to do is give X a call. Let him know we have Ivan and he's being very cooperative."

Nancy cast Frank a doubtful look. "Won't that send X and company racing over here?" she asked.

"That's exactly what I'm hoping for," Frank said. He looked at Ivan. "Wanna talk?"

Ivan said nothing.

"Didn't think so." Frank holstered his gun then selected X from the menu and pressed the send button. He put the phone on speaker and waited. After four rings, a gruff voice came over the line, cautious and curious. "Ivan?"

Frank said, "This isn't Ivan."

There was a pause while the man at the other end of the line processed the unfamiliar voice. When he spoke again he was angry and full of questions. "Who is this? Where is Ivan? If this is some kind of joke —"

Frank cut him off, "This is no joke and I'm very serious. Your man, Ivan, is being very cooperative."

"Who are you? What are you talking about?" Clearly irritated now.

"I'm Frank Hardy and I'm talking about making your life an absolute living hell, X." Frank stressed the letter X.

A beat then the man said, "_Mister_ X."

Frank rolled is eyes. "Sorry. _Mister_ X." Like it mattered, Frank thought.

"If you knew who I was, you would not speak to me in this way. _You _would fear for _your_ life." The threat sounded real enough.

Frank kept his voice calm, unimpressed. "I'm shaking in my boots." He gave a snort. "The thing is, Mr. X, you're at a bit of a disadvantage here. You don't know everything I do. Ivan has given me all I need to put you out of business and in the ground for good."

A deep throated chuckle filled the line. "Now I know you are lying or you are the world's biggest fool, Frank Hardy. I know my men. I know Ivan. He would _never_ talk. He knows the consequences." The last sentence was said with complete and utter confidence.

Frank smiled. "You're right. He didn't talk. His phone did. So did Boris' by the way. Cell phones are wonderful inventions, Mr. X. People fill them with all kinds of information. Names, phone numbers, photos. Did you know that both phones have the same names listed: Luka, Wade, and X. You getting the picture here? Oh, and then there's Marcus. He's on both phones, too. You know Marcus, don't you? He appears to be somebody very important. Boris, Ivan, and Marcus have been communicating a lot. You know, lots of calls, back and forth, all times of the day and night. Makes you wonder what's going on, doesn't it?" Frank was making this up, but Mr. X didn't know that.

Nancy checked on Ivan. He looked uncomfortable. The conversation called into question his loyalty to Mr. X.

Earlier, back at the office, Frank had shared with the team a theory he'd come up with regarding Marcus. The call to Mr. X gave Frank the opportunity to test his theory.

Mr. X took a moment to process what Frank had said. When he came back on the line his voice was guarded, "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

Frank gave a short laugh. "I think you're the one who doesn't know who they're dealing with. Think about it. I've taken out two of your men in less than 24 hours and I'm just getting started. In another 24 hours I'll be at your doorstep. Let me lay it out for you in very simple words that even you can understand. I have what Marcus wants. The package. What do you have?"

Yuri, Nancy, and Joe eyed Frank warily. How far would he push Mr. X?

Mr. X said, "You are playing a very dangerous game Mr. Hardy. I know you are working for Prince Dimitri and I know you want the princess."

A fire blazed in Yuri's dark eyes.

"Alive," Frank clarified. "I want the princess alive and I want her returned safe and sound."

"So, Mr. Hardy, let me lay it out for you in very simple words, words that even you can understand. If you do not give me the package I will kill the princess."

"No you won't." Frank sounded smug and confident. "You're not stupid. If you kill the princess you have nothing left to bargain with. The princess is the only thing keeping you alive right now."

"You are taking big chances with the princess' life," Mr. X warned.

"Not really," Frank said. "Look at the facts. You and I both know Marcus isn't after the princess. It's the package he wants. I could call Marcus right now and offer him the package. End of game for you. I'd agree to take half of whatever Marcus was going to give you for the package and then I'd come after you. And you can count on that."

Mr. X's chuckle was low and condescending. "You don't scare me. You are nothing but a punk, an amateur trying to play in the big leagues."

Frank could feel the man's sneer. "Okay Mr. X, I may not scare you, but what about Marcus? How does he deal with people who fail? If I call Marcus he'll know you failed. There's no going back after that."

Frank waited for an answer. He heard shuffling at the other end of the line, some heavy breathing, and muffled voices.

Finally Mr. X came back on the line. "So, you really want to play in the big leagues?"

"Yeah, why not, I'm doing okay so far."

"Then we make deal. We exchange the princess for the package. I call you tomorrow with details."

The connection went dead. Frank got the feeling Mr. X was anxious to get off the phone. He pressed the end button, placed the phone on the table, and turned to Ivan. "Now listen and listen carefully because this is the part where you get to choose if you live, or if you die."

Ivan sat stoically in the chair, his dark eyes flashing.

"You have two choices," Frank said. "First choice, you tell us where Tasha is and we hand you over to the local police. All nice and easy. You get a nice warm cot to sleep in and three meals a day. American prisons – wonderful places, or so I've heard. I've even heard stories that people actually commit crimes so they can go to prison."

Ivan didn't look convinced or impressed. His gaze wandered to Nancy his eyes traveling in a slow sensual arc along her body. He found her an attractive woman – strong and athletic looking. His eyes stopped at her face and lingered there. He wondered how she'd gotten the black and blue splotches on her forehead. A wisp of blond hair had escaped her knit hat. He grinned. He liked blondes.

Frank kicked Ivan's left leg. Not hard enough to break it, just hard enough to bring Ivan's attention back to where it belonged, on him, on Frank.

Ivan bared his teeth and sneered at Frank. His leg throbbed and he wanted to rub it, but couldn't, not with his hands handcuffed behind his back. Frank gave him a long, hard stare. Ivan did not avert his eyes, he gave as good as he got, and Frank was a master at the stare down.

Frank cleared his throat and fixed Ivan with a penetrating glare, the one that froze a person in place. "You need to focus here. Second choice, you don't tell us where Tasha is and we leave you here for Mr. X and his associates to find. We'll leave you here with a broken leg, broken fingers, and maybe a broken nose." Frank hitched a thumb over his shoulder at Yuri. "I know my buddy here would like nothing better than to break every bone in your miserable body."

Yuri moved closer and Ivan's eyes went cold and flat.

Frank bent and gave Ivan's cheek several few rough pats. "You understand what I'm saying to you? Let me repeat myself, we _will_ leave you here crippled. No chance of escape. No chance to defend yourself. I get the feeling Mr. X doesn't like mistakes or people who screw up. Am I right?"

Frank straightened to his full height, looked down at Ivan and said, "Face it, you screwed up. We caught you. X knows that. I used your phone. Your boss thinks you and Boris have been double-crossing him, working with Marcus behind his back. It's doesn't look good for you. I bet Mr. X is on his way over here right now. What do you think?"

Ivan took a breath and glared at the floor, jaw clenched.

He's close, Frank thought, have to keep the pressure on. "You know what else I think? I think X won't come here alone. He'll bring back up. Who are Luka and Wade?"

Ivan's eyes came to life. His head snapped up and his eyes flitted around the room looking for a way out.

Got him, Frank thought. "I hear you Russians are ruthless. You screw up, you pay with your life. I hear it's usually a slow, painful death."

Next to Frank, Yuri said, "Very slow. Very painful. You beg to be killed. You beg for death."

Nancy checked her watch and looked at Frank. "It's been five minutes since you ended the call. How long do you think it'll take X and friends to get here?"

Frank's eyes were cold and hard, devoid of human kindness. He was in the zone, pushing a suspect to the edge. This was a side of Frank Nancy had never seen before. The man she saw before her startled and frightened her. She wondered how Ivan, the man under the intense scrutiny, felt.

An unpleasant grin spread across Frank's lips and his eyes narrowed to glittering mahogany slits. "Good question." He squatted in front of Ivan, got eye to eye with him. Sweat dotted the Russian's brow. "How long do you think it'll take them to get here?"

Ivan worked his jaw mulling things over. Choices and questions bounced around inside his head. Too many choices. Too many questions. All difficult for a guy who didn't like questions. Orders were better – direct and to the point. No choices, no questions. With orders you were told what to do and you did it, plain and simple.

Frank stood and kicked Ivan's leg again, same leg, same spot, the sensitive shinbone. "So, what's it going to be? Nice American prison or a slow, painful death?"

Ivan grunted and squirmed in the chair, his shin throbbing. Another good kick would fracture the bone, then he would be crippled. A knot of fear formed in the pit of his stomach. No means of escape, he thought. The Americans had him cornered. Should he go down fighting or should he live to fight another day? These guys didn't really scare him. It was Mr. X and those steroid-jacked psychos Luka and Wade that scared him. He'd seen Luka and Wade in action, knew what they were capable of, and how much they enjoyed torturing a victim. No simple bullet to the brain for them, they used knifes, wires, saws, and electric drills.

Ivan inwardly cringed, swallowed hard, and wondered how this night had gone so horribly wrong. He'd followed orders. He'd ditched the car and came home. None of this was his fault. No one could have predicted there'd be four armed people waiting for him. Mr. X would understand that, wouldn't he?

No, he might not. No, he probably would not. This Frank guy had Mr. X believing he and Boris were working with Marcus. No, Mr. X definitely would not believe Ivan.

Ivan figured his life was over. Mr. X would hunt him down and have him killed – painfully just like Frank said.

Frank backed away and turned to Yuri. "He's all yours."

A nasty grin covered Yuri's face. He grabbed Ivan by his expensive jacket, yanked him out of the chair, and punched him in the gut. It was a short, quick blow fueled by hate and anger. Ivan dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Yuri towered over him. "Now, you and I talk. I'm not like these Americans. I don't play nice. You _will_ tell me where the princess is."

Ivan groaned softly. His stomach felt like he'd been hit by a semi.

Yuri rolled Ivan onto his stomach, placed a knee on his back, and pinned him to the floor. Yuri grabbed the little finger on Ivan's left hand and said, "Where is the princess?"

Ivan didn't answer, so Yuri twisted the finger. The muscles in Ivan's jaw and neck tightened. He gritted his teeth and growled through the pain. "Aaaaahhh."

Nancy signaled Joe to meet her in the hall. In the hall she said, "We need to keep watch outside. Mr. X and his associates could show up any minute. I'll go out the back and take the left side of the house. You go out the front and take the right side."

Frank came up beside Nancy and Joe. "Good idea," he said. "I was just going to suggest that."

Nancy went to the back door, let herself out and peered into the night searching the yard, trees, and bushes. Nothing suspicious. She slipped into the shadow of the house, her Glock pressed against her thigh, and made her way to the front. She saw a shrub and stately oak tree in the far right corner of the property and scurried toward them. She took cover behind the shrub. She had a clear view of the street.

Joe came out the front door, scanned the sidewalk and street from the stoop. Saw all was quiet and took cover behind a tall bush at the end of the driveway. He radioed Nancy and told her he was in position. She relayed the information to Frank.

In the dining room Yuri twisted harder and Ivan groaned louder. A snap and a sharp yelp told Frank Ivan had one broken finger.

Ivan lay on the floor moaning and panting.

"Where's the princess?" Yuri growled.

When no answer came, Yuri grabbed Ivan's ring finger and twisted.

Ivan groaned with the pain and assessed his situation. One broken finger and more to come. A ton of pain and more to come. Mr. X, Luka, and Wade on their way. Where did all this leave him? Dead. He stood no chance against Luka or Wade. He knew that unequivocally. They were big, crazy, steroid users and cold-blooded killers.

Ivan thought the Americans and the gorilla on his back might play fair. He might have a shot at survival with them. Besides, what did he really have to lose?

His ring finger snapped and he caved. "I talk. I talk."

Yuri kept his knee firmly planted on Ivan's back and said, "Where is she?"

Sweat trickled down Ivan's forehead. His face was awash with pain. Through ragged breaths he said in Russian, "I .. I don't know. Honest. Honest. I wasn't here."

Yuri looked at Frank and translated, "He says he doesn't know where she is."

Frank scowled and his anger flared. "He has to have some idea where they'd take her."

"Agreed." Yuri started twisting another finger. "You have to do better than that," he told Ivan in English.

Ivan groaned and writhed. "Aaahhh. Aaahhh." Grunting and grimacing with the pain he yelled in English, "I .. I not sure. Maybe .. maybe they take her to house."

Yuri eased the pressure on the finger. "What house?"

Ivan was panting so hard he couldn't answer and Yuri had grown impatient. This was taking too much time, time they didn't have. His anger consumed him. It ate him up knowing they'd been so close to finding the princess only to have her slip through their fingers. Yuri grabbed Ivan by the hair, pulled his head back and shouted at him in Russian. Ivan merely groaned unable to do anything else. Yuri let go of Ivan's hair and his face banged into the floor. Yuri got to his feet, paced a moment then turned and kicked Ivan in the side lifting him off the floor a little. Yuri, hands fisted, shouted at Ivan some more and got ready to kick him again.

Frank grabbed Yuri by a shoulder, tried to pull him away, but Yuri jerked free. Frank grabbed him again – mad now – put all his strength into it and slammed him against a wall, held him there with a forearm under his chin. "Enough," Frank said. He gave Yuri a hard stare. "Enough. We got him."

Yuri took a deep breath and nodded. He understood. He'd lost control, was ready to beat a man senseless.

Frank gave Yuri one last look then released him and turned to Ivan curled on the floor groaning. Frank yanked him to his feet. Ivan staggered, but Frank caught him, held him two-fisted by the jacket and got nose to nose with him. "Time's running out," he said in a rough voice. "What house?"

* * *

><p>Mr. X was a high ranking criminal and like most criminals he did not have friends. He had associates, suppliers, dealers, and bosses – none of which he completely trusted – but no friends. What Frank Hardy had told Mr. X on the phone had made his blood run cold.<p>

Marcus.

Frank Hardy had said Boris and Ivan were working with Marcus. Their cell phones proved it. Frank Hardy had the evidence. People might lie, but cell phones did not. The only way Frank Hardy could have known about Marcus was through the cell phones. No one knew about Marcus. Marcus was an invisible man. Even Mr. X himself had never personally met Marcus all their dealings had been conducted over phones.

Cell phones.

_Cell phones are wonderful inventions_ _Frank Hardy had said_.

Had Marcus contacted Boris and Ivan? Or had it been the other way around? At this point it didn't really matter.

Mr. X had thought he was 'moving up the ladder.' He was the up and coming man in Marcus' organization. But in this business everything was cutthroat and you moved up the ladder by eliminating the competition. Eliminating meant killing.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to see what Boris and Ivan had been planning. Mr. X ran a shaky hand down his flabby face. Boris and Ivan had been planning on killing him. Cut him out of the picture and take his place.

He must act quickly and decisively. He turned to Luka and Wade who were in the room with him. They had arrived shortly after Frank called. Mr. X briefed them on the call then dispatched them to the house. Ivan, and anyone else they found, was to be eliminated – except Frank Hardy. Frank Hardy was to be brought to Mr. X. He wanted to watch Luka and Wade tear Frank Hardy apart – limb by limb.

* * *

><p><em>AN: After receiving a few reviews, I see that people think Joe's going to keep the pistol. No, he would never do that. It's evidence and he doesn't steal, not even in this situation. His comment that 'he always wanted one,' just meant he would like to have one. Sorry to disappoint anyone._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Joe wheeled the rental truck onto the driveway of the house rented by Boris, parked it and left the engine running. He grabbed his rifle off the passenger's seat and his backpack off the bench seat behind him. The front door of the house burst open and Yuri came running out. Joe jumped out of the truck with his gear and sprinted after Yuri. They ran to the Ford Expedition. Nancy holstered her Glock, climbed into the driver's seat of the truck and belted up. Frank came out the back door of the house holding Ivan by the arm. They ran to the front of the house and to the truck.

Frank had radioed Nancy and Joe the minute Ivan gave up the house address. The house where they thought Tasha might be held. The house was located in a rural community forty minutes outside of River Heights.

Yuri and Joe would head to the house and keep it under surveillance. Nancy and Frank would head to the police station, turn Ivan over to the police, and contact Detective Cutter. Hopefully, Cutter could get a search warrant for Boris' house before the night was over. Frank felt certain a forensic team would find Tasha's fingerprints in the basement. Her fingerprints would be the first solid piece of evidence in her kidnapping case.

Everyone was in motion, no time to waste. Mr. X and company could show up any minute and no one wanted to be at the house when they did. The Ford Expedition roared down the street with Yuri at the wheel. Nancy backed the truck out of the driveway. Ivan was scrunched sideways on the bench seat behind her and she could hear his heavy breathing.

Down the block a car turned onto the street. Frank, looking through the rear window of the truck, saw it. He twisted all the way around, brought his Beretta up and rested it on the top of the seat. Ivan leaned to the side giving the gun a wide berth. He was in no shape to offer resistance and his broken fingers throbbed painfully.

Nancy guided the truck down the street sticking to the 25 mph posted speed limit. Frank studied the car behind them – a black Lincoln Town Car – full sized sedan, could hold six people comfortably. Tinted windows limited Frank's view to the outside.

The car's speed increased and its halogen headlights bore down on the truck.

Frank cautioned Nancy, "Keep your speed normal. Let's not draw any attention to ourselves."

Nancy checked the rearview mirror. "I think they saw me back out of the driveway."

The Town Car's headlights filled the truck's interior and glinted off the rearview mirror. Nancy squinted. "They're getting closer."

"Yeah, I see that," Frank said. "Keep your head down."

Nancy scrunched down in her seat and a finger of fear tickled her neck.

Frank saw a flash of metal as a high-powered rifle came out of the passenger's side window. Before he could shout a warning gunfire punctured the night. Ivan threw himself down in the space between the front seat and the bench seat. Frank ducked and Nancy hit the gas. The old truck shot forward slamming Nancy and Frank against the seat. The gunfire came fast and steady. Frank cautiously peered over the back of the seat.

Nancy yelled over the whine of the engine and the roar of gunfire, "How close are they?"

Frank yelled back, "Too close."

Nancy saw a side street and took a hard left that sent Frank, who was not wearing a seat-beat, crashing into the passenger's side door. Seeing no traffic, Nancy punched the gas pedal then checked the rearview mirror – no Town Car.

"We need to get off these residential streets," she yelled. "Someone's liable to get hurt." Her eyes darted wildly looking for side streets, her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles were turning white.

Frank pushed away from the passenger side door, peered out the rear window and saw the Town Car turn the corner and accelerate after them. "You're right."

He racked the slide on his Beretta, positioned himself against the seat and rested his gun on top. He had a clear shot. He saw the rifle come out of the window again, saw the muzzle flash, and heard the dull percussive pop of bullets – a hailstorm of bullets – all aimed at the right-hand side of the truck, the side Frank was on.

Frank figured the shooter in the Town Car wasn't going for accuracy. Precision shooting is next to impossible when you're holding a rifle outside a car widow and trying to keep your head inside for protection. In this case the shooter was aiming in the general direction of the truck and hoping for a few lucky shots.

He got one. The rear window of the truck exploded in a shower of glass that rained down on Ivan wedged between the seats. The handcuffs prevented him from protecting himself. Cold air rushed in through the broken window followed by the deafening sound of automatic gunfire.

Nancy took another hard left, barely slowing for the turn. The truck's tires squealed in protest. Frank held on to the seat and yelled to Nancy, "Listen, I have a plan. Slow down when I tell you to."

"What?" She shot him a skeptical look and checked the rearview mirror. She saw the Town Car come barreling around the corner, tires screeching. "They're right behind us."

"I know, I know. Trust me."

Nancy was worried, but said, "Okay." She kept her foot planted on the accelerator.

Frank got into position; head low, forearms braced against the seat, a firm two-handed grip on his Beretta, and lined up the Town Car in his sights. It was coming up fast, ready to ram the truck. Bullets whizzed past. _Ping. Ping. Ping._ Three bullets struck the rear panel of the truck.

Frank wished he had taken Joe's advice and brought his own Colt M4 rifle. It had a longer effective range than the Beretta – would be ten times better in this situation. The Beretta was good at about one hundred-sixty-four feet, or forty feet longer than the distance from home plate to second base. Frank had to let the Town Car get close enough for his shot to count. He calculated the distance between the two vehicles then yelled to Nancy, "Now. Slow down."

Nancy reluctantly eased off the gas and Frank fired. A split-second later the Town Car's windshield shattered. The car swerved dangerously then straightened out and headed for the truck. Frank concentrated on his next target, the right front tire. He fired, and shot it out in a big beautiful explosion. Strips of rubber spiraled through the air and the wheel went down on its rim. Bright yellow sparks shot out like fireworks as the car swerved right, left, then bounced up onto a sidewalk and crashed into a streetlamp. The car rocked a moment then the doors flew open and two men spilled out onto the sidewalk, one held a rifle, but he was too late to retaliate. Nancy had hit the gas and pulled the truck well out of range.

Two blocks later she finally allowed herself to relax. She eased off the gas and slowed to the posted speed limit. She blew out a relieved breath, wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her forearm and gave Frank a sideways glance.

"Frank," she said. "Let's try not to do that again .. the shooting part."

Frank chuckled as he holstered his Beretta. "Aw, where's your sense of adventure and excitement?"

"Adventure and excitement? Is that what you call being chased and shot at? How many times this week have we been shot at? Three! I could use a little less excitement."

Frank leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I hate to tell you this, but I think we're in for more excitement. This case isn't over yet."

Nancy shook her head and sighed, "I think you're right." She turned her attention to the road and tried to ignore the little voice in her head telling her things were going to get worse before they got better.

Frank turned and checked on Ivan. The Russian was covered in broken glass. The cold night air rushed through the broken window, flowed around Ivan's neck and chilled him to the bone. Frank reached over the seat and pulled Ivan up onto the bench seat. The crunch of glass and a few curse words, uttered in Russian, told Frank Ivan had seat full of pain. Frank grinned – curse words were identifiable in any language.

Frank decided to be charitable and gave Ivan's expensive jacket a good hard shake dislodging most of the bits of glass. Then Frank smiled and patted Ivan's cheek. "How's that American prison looking now?"

Ivan didn't look happy or well. His face was flush and his brow was knotted in pain. His eyes glazed over and his head dropped in defeat. His future wasn't looking too bright at the moment.

It was after ten o'clock when Nancy wheeled into the River Heights Police Station. She saw an open slot near the front door, parked in it, and killed the engine. The old truck rattled and sputtered before finally going silent.

Frank snapped his cell phone shut and turned to Nancy. "I alerted the Kiev Village PD to the shooting and the black Town Car. Officers were already on their way. They said we can come in tomorrow and give statements. Now, I'll let you call Detective Cutter and tell him we're here."

Nancy pulled off her knit cap. "Me? Why me? You can call him just as easily as I can."

Frank chuckled good-naturedly. "Yeah, right. We both know who he'd rather hear from. I'm not the one he let sit in on two interviews and I'm definitely not the one he _gave_ his card to, the one with his private cell phone number."

Nancy smoothed down her disheveled hair, smiled, then slugged Frank in the shoulder – hard. "Oh, okay. I'll make the call." She really didn't mind.

Frank rubbed his shoulder as he and Nancy got out of the truck. They shrugged off their bullet-proof vests and tossed them on the front seat of the truck. Their PI badges hung around their necks. Frank hauled Ivan out of the back of the truck. Broken glass tumbled off of the Russian and tinkled on the pavement. The bits of glass sparkled like diamonds in the harsh exterior lighting.

The trio entered the police station with Nancy leading the way. Ivan watched her long ponytail sway as she walked. It took his mind off his swollen, aching fingers and developing headache. Although he was still handcuffed, Frank held him tightly by the arm.

The desk sergeant rose to greet them. He was built like an oil drum, a thirty year old oil drum who eyed them suspiciously. "And what have we here?" He placed a hand on the service revolver at his hip.

Frank stopped two feet from the desk. "I'm Frank Hardy and this is Nancy Drew. We're private detectives." Frank lifted his PI badge hanging around his neck giving the sergeant a better view. "We're working a case with Detective Cutter – the Tasha Romanoff kidnapping. This is Ivan Tarasenko. He's a suspect in Miss Romanoff's kidnapping. I think Detective Cutter would like to question him."

The desk sergeant eased his hand off his revolver. "That so?" He studied Ivan's strained expression. "What happened to him? He doesn't look so good."

"Broken fingers," Frank said.

"Really? How'd that happen?" Suspicious.

"I'm sure he'll be happy to tell Detective Cutter all about it."

"Yeah, well that would involve me calling Detective Cutter now, wouldn't it?" Said as if calling was a major imposition.

Nancy was off to the side talking on her cell phone.

Frank narrowed his eyes and glared at the sergeant. "Yeah, it would involve you calling him. You have a problem with that?"

The sergeant pulled a three ring binder off a shelf and laid it on the desk with a loud thud. "Cutter doesn't like being disturbed at night." Said as a major threat.

Frank's glare darkened. "Who does?"

Nancy shut her cell and said, "Don't worry sergeant. Detective Cutter is on his way."

The sergeant's jaw dropped. He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut.

Fifteen minutes later Cutter walked through the door, tie and hat in place. Tonight's color choice was pink. A bright pink tie to match the bright pink feather in his black Fedora hat. His heavy black topcoat hung from his shoulders and he looked irritated. He greeted Frank and Nancy with a smile that said he was none too happy to see them. "Ah, my favorite private detectives."

Frank set his jaw into a hard line and Nancy smiled indulgently.

Cutter turned to Nancy and pointed at her bruised forehead. "I thought you were going to get some rest?"

Nancy lost her smile, started to respond, but Cutter said, "You folks wouldn't know anything about the shooting in the Kiev Village tonight would you?"

Frank and Nancy looked at each other, but said nothing.

Cutter nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Can't wait to hear about it. I saw the bullet holes and broken widow on your truck. Of course, I'm assuming that piece of crap is your truck." He directed the last comment at Frank.

Frank started to say something but stopped, didn't want to rise to the bait.

Cutter spotted Ivan sitting on a chair and frowned. "So, who's this?" Squinting, he bent and took a closer look. "And what the hell happened to him?"

An hour later, Nancy and Frank were seated in Detective Cutter's office. As far as offices went this one was nice. Very nice in fact. Cutter clearly had a sense of style and it showed. Frank thought the office was a bit effeminate. Nancy thought it was tasteful. Certificates hung neatly on pale blue walls, plants were arranged on a gray filing cabinet in the corner, and Cutter's desk, a rich, dark cherry wood, was neat and tidy, not a pencil or pen out of place.

Frank noticed Cutter's chair was plush and cushy and he looked very comfortable in it. Frank and Nancy's chairs were hard as rocks. Frank wondered if it was intentional, a subtle way of making visitors uncomfortable so they didn't stay long or visit too often.

For the third time Frank and Nancy gave their accounts of the evening. Frank, noting the respect and rapport Nancy and Cutter had developed for each other, let Nancy do most of the talking. Cutter seemed more than happy to listen to her and Frank didn't mind listening to her either. Frank's only contribution to the conversation was to show the necklace Joe had found in the basement, describe the weapons he'd seen in the living room, and hand over the bagged items they'd taken off of Ivan – the PSA pistol, his keys, cell phone, knife and wallet with cash and drivers' license.

Cutter wanted to break this case wide open. The necklace and weapons gave him enough for probable cause. Two phone calls later he had a search warrant for the house. Questioning Ivan could wait until morning. Ivan had been booked and charged with kidnapping and carrying an unlicensed weapon. At the moment a doctor was tending to his broken fingers which meant he'd probably be doped up pretty good, so there was no point in trying to question him tonight.

Boris, with his jaw wired shut, wouldn't be giving up any information anytime soon. He was in the hospital under heavy sedation. Cutter hoped one of the weapons in the house matched the ballistics in the Kurt Swanson shooting, then Ivan, or Boris, or both would be looking at a murder rap.

Cutter, anxious to search the house, rose to dismiss Frank and Nancy.

Frank got to his feet happy to be out of the hard chair. He had a question for Cutter. "Any information on the bomb that blew up Miss Romanoff's car?"

Cutter was feeling generous. Maybe it was the cushy chair. "I got the report from the bomb squad this afternoon. No human remains were found in the car. The bomb was pretty low tech. The report says it looked like something a gangbanger cooked up in his garage."

"A drug dealing gangbanger?" Frank asked.

"Probably," Cutter said. "At least, that's my guess."

It was Frank's guess, too.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: A great big thank you for the reviews. It means a lot to me that you took the time to leave a comment and I truly appreciate it. Things slow down a little in this chapter, but our detectives are still making progress._

* * *

><p>Chapter 16<p>

Nancy and Frank exited the police station. Nancy still had the keys to the truck.

"Keys," Frank said motioning for them with his fingers.

"Nope." Nancy jerked her hand with the keys behind her back and held up her other hand. "We're keeping things the way they were. I'm driving and you're the lookout." She tipped her head sideways and a smile lit up her face. "I like the way you handle a gun, Mr. Hardy. That was some very impressive shooting earlier." Her voice may have been teasing, but the praise and smile were genuine.

Frank let out a soft chuckle and smiled back. "Thanks. And that was some impressive driving you did earlier, Miss Drew. I think you must've gone to the same driving school as Joe Hardy." Frank rubbed his shoulder. "You took those corners a little fast. I think my shoulder's bruised."

An eyebrow rose over a particularly blue eye. "You look perfectly fine to me. A couple of hours of sleep and you'll be good as new." She waved a hand over her black and blue forehead. "A little sleep wouldn't hurt me either."

Frank's brow creased with concern. "Yeah, it's been a long night, hasn't it? How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine, just a little headache."

They stepped up to the cold truck. Frank's stomach grumbled. "Hey, sleep is good, but food's even better. I'm hungry. Let's stop for hamburgers on the way home."

Nancy laughed and lightly punched Frank's shoulder. "Glad we have our priorities straight, Hardy."

"Hey, standard combat operating procedures. Eat and sleep when you can. You never know when you'll get another chance."

"You're right and I'm hungry, too." Nancy opened the driver's side door. Frank went around to the passenger's side. Nancy called across the truck. "Hey, you're buying, you promised me dinner tonight."

Frank groaned as he opened the door.

* * *

><p>Nancy peered into the refrigerator. Frank sat at the small kitchen table with a bag of fast food in front of him thinking it felt good to be home. Well, minus the blood stains on the floor downstairs in the office, and the broken window, and the new bullet holes in the wall and ceiling. Yeah, other than that it felt really good to be home.<p>

Nancy placed a bottle of ketchup on the table in front of Frank and slipped into the chair opposite him. Little by little she was learning his idiosyncrasies. He hated those little pouches of ketchup – hard to open and not worth the effort, he said, hardly any ketchup in the darn things, too. He handed Nancy a wrapped hamburger and some fries then dumped the rest of the food in the bag on the table in front of him.

He stole glances at her as he unwrapped his hamburger. She was dressed in black jeans, a black tank top, and a faded flannel shirt. The shirt was from a set of clothes she'd decided to keep at the office in case of emergencies.

Frank saw the fatigue on her face and the bruise on her forehead had turned a dark shade of eggplant. A smudge of blush colored her cheeks and the slightest touch of mascara darkened her lashes. She didn't need a lot of make-up and she didn't use a lot. All fine by him. To him she was beautiful.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's not the dinner I promised you."

She waved away the apology. "It's okay. There'll be other nights. Besides, I feel like we made some real progress on the case tonight. Now we know where Boris and Ivan were holding Tasha and we may know where she's been moved. I noticed you shared that piece of information with Detective Cutter .. the new location."

Frank nodded, but avoided direct eye contact, instead studying his hamburger. "Yeah, I thought about keeping that bit of information to ourselves, but finally decided to play it straight and be honest with him. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not sure about Cutter, but I want him looking into that house, finding out who owns it and sharing that information with us. Like I told him, if Joe and Yuri's surveillance turns up something tonight I'll let him know."

"He seemed happy to hear that."

"Yeah, well, we're helping him out and he knows it. He's got his hands full right now with the search of Boris' house and Ivan's interrogation. He doesn't have enough manpower to put the other house under surveillance."

Nancy nodded and dabbed a french fry in the ketchup she'd squirted on her hamburger wrapper. She switched subjects by saying, "I think you pushed a few buttons tonight .. with Mr. X."

A frown creased Frank's forehead and he locked eyes with Nancy. "You think I pushed too hard?"

"Maybe." She chewed the fry, kept her expression neutral.

"Sometimes you have to push hard to get results." His voice held more of an edge than he intended.

"Well, you got results. They came after us – guns blazing. I'm a little worried. They know where this office is. They know where we are. They could show up here any minute. We could have a repeat performance of Thursday night."

"I don't think we need to worry. The police are still patrolling the block and I'm a light sleeper. I'll sleep downstairs on the long sofa. If someone tries to get in, I'll hear them."

Nancy said, "We could take shifts."

Frank shook his head. "We'll be fine."

"Okay, then I wanted to mention something else .. about Marcus."

Frank lifted his head and his eyebrows rose in question. "Yeah?"

"That was pretty sharp thinking, bringing up Marcus' name tonight, making it seem like Boris and Ivan have been working for him behind X's back."

"Thanks." Frank saw that look on Nancy's face, the one that said she was dissecting the case, analyzing the pieces, trying to fit them together in a coherent whole. "Is there an _and_?"

"Yes, there's an _and_." She smiled and licked a dollop of ketchup off an index finger. Frank found the gesture thoroughly enticing and felt an immediate tightening in his groin.

"And," Nancy continued unaware of Frank's reaction, "I've come to the conclusion that this organization we're dealing with has three tiers. Shall I lay them out for you?"

"Sure," his voice came out as a strangled groan.

Nancy eyed Frank with concern. He motioned for her to go on, so she did. "I'll start at the bottom, Tier One, it had Boris and Ivan. We eliminated them, so it's all good news there. Next is Tier Two, – Mr. X and cohorts. Here it's bad news and good news. The bad news is we don't know how many people we're dealing with. The good news is we have an idea where they're located. The bad news, however, still worries me. In Tier Three we have the mysterious Marcus and as far as I'm concerned, Tier Three is all bad news. We don't know how many people we're dealing with and we have no idea where they are. Tier Three really worries me. I hate to say it, Frank, but we might be getting in way over our heads with Marcus."

Frank rubbed his chin and looked like he was giving Nancy's suggestion some serious thought. He was actually thinking how damned sexy she looked. "Come on," he said, "you're not giving up on us yet, are you?" It was a weak response and he knew it, but in all honestly, his brain wasn't functioning at peak efficiency at the moment.

Nancy looked slightly offended. "I'm not giving up on us. I'm trying to be realistic here, I'm looking at the big picture, at all the players. I don't want us waltzing into a situation where we find ourselves surrounded by an army of drug dealers. There's no way you, me, Joe and Yuri can handle that."

Frank took a long drink of water, a diversion, it gave him time to think, get his mind back on the case. He set the glass on the table, slow and meticulous, then met Nancy's gaze. "You're absolutely right, Nan. And I'd never suggest we go into a situation like that. But let's think about Tier Two as you called it. We have more information on that Tier than you mentioned. We know two other players, Luka and Wade."

"True. I'd forgotten about them."

Frank went on, "Plus, we have some other facts. For example, the car chase tonight, there was only one car and it had two men in it. I'm willing to bet that was Luka and Wade and only one of them did any shooting, the passenger, and he wasn't that good. That tells me those guys aren't experts with guns."

Nancy begged to differ. "He did shoot out the back window and managed to put a few bullets in the truck."

Frank grinned. "Lucky shots. If he'd had any training, any real ability with a gun, we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation."

Nancy had to concede that very valid assumption. "Hmm, you might be right. I hadn't thought of it like that. So, who are Luka and Wade and what exactly is their job?"

Frank placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "I'm thinking they're hired help just like Boris and Ivan. I don't think we're dealing with a lot of people here, not at Tier Two anyway. Look at what we know; Boris and Ivan have only been in the area a few weeks, maybe a month. The question is, did Mr. X bring them in, or did he come with them? I think he came with them. On the phone he said, 'I know my men. Ivan would never talk, he knows the consequences.' My men. That implies a unit, a team, a group that's been together for a while. 'He knows the consequences.' That tells me they're organized, they have a strict set of rules and some pretty harsh consequences if anyone steps out of line. Organized crime rings like this like to keep their numbers small. Their motto is, 'Less is better.' Fewer people means fewer mistakes and fewer people to share information and money with."

"And it's all about the money, isn't it?" Nancy said.

"Usually. Which brings us to the big question. Who brought in X and his group? And why?"

"Marcus," Nancy said softly.

"Bingo. And he's the guy who wants the envelope. He's the guy with something to lose in all this, the one with the connection to Tasha and Dimtri's father, Alexander Romanoff."

Nancy leaned an elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand. "It all comes back to the papers in that envelope. I really need to look through those." Her disappointment showed. She'd put off an important task for far too long, but then she hadn't had much time for searching through documents.

"Maybe tomorrow," Frank said, although he doubted it. "Maybe we can both go through them."

Nancy smothered a yawn. "Maybe."

Frank glanced at his watch. "It's twelve thirty. I'd say it's bedtime for you."

"I'd say you're right." Nancy pushed herself out of her chair, lifted her arms above her head and went up on her toes stretching her five foot six inch frame to the max. She laced her hands together over her head and arched her back. Her black tank top rose exposing the flat, toned muscles of her midriff. After a few seconds she relaxed. Her heels came down, touched the floor, and in one graceful move she brought her hands down and undid her ponytail. Her hair fell like an unruly waterfall and splashed upon her shoulders. She ran her hands through her hair ruffling it.

Seated at the table, Frank watched the entire sequence with a heat building in that one place you didn't want a heat building – not when you had no way of putting it out. He ached to run his hands up her sides, to her face, and through her hair. He wanted to pull her close, kiss her like she'd never been kissed before, then sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom.

Nice fantasy and certainly not standard combat operating procedures. He shook his head dispelling the pleasant fantasy. They were at war. They had to stay alert and ready. This was no time to be caught with your pants down – figuratively and literally speaking.

He let out a heavy sigh and felt a wave of exhaustion settle over him. Wait until the case is over he thought, then instantly regretted the words. He heaved in exasperation. How many times had he said those words?

_Wait until the case is over_.

He leaned forward, ran his hands down his weary face and felt some of the heat dissipate. He drew in a long, deep breath that caught in his throat. He loved her. He knew that. He'd known it for a while now, but he hadn't told her. He wasn't brave enough to say the words. Mentally he laughed at himself. He was brave enough to face down an armed opponent – Boris – but not brave enough to say three simple words.

_I love you_.

He had no idea her thoughts mirrored his own.

Nancy glanced at Frank as she scooped fast food wrappers off the table and shoved them in the trash can. She'd seen the way he'd looked at her, his dark eyes filled with longing and desire. And love. No, she hadn't missed that part and she felt those exact same things – longing, desire, and love.

She wanted to reach out to him, hold him, say the words, _I want you, I need you, I love you_. But something held her back. What? Fear? Fear of being rejected? Fear of sounding too dependent, too needy?

No, it wasn't that, she thought as she rinsed her hands at the sink. This was a different fear. It was the fear of losing the relationship, the fear that one misstep, one misspoken word and the whole thing would fall apart. Was their relationship really that fragile?

They were taking things slow, trying to make everything perfect. Perhaps, that was the problem. They were going too slow, trying to make things too perfect.

Yes, she thought, that was the problem. They wanted everything to be absolutely perfect.

Nancy dried her hands on a towel and laid it on the counter.

Frank rousted himself from his chair and turned to her. She smiled at him, a tired smile, but a smile meant only for him. She stepped up to him and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck. He felt that familiar heat spread through his body. Her eyes glowed and the angles of her face softened. She rose on her toes and kissed him, soft and sweet with a tenderness that melted his heart.

She whispered in his ear, her breath caressing his neck and cheek, "Thank you."

"Huh?" He was at a total loss here. "For what?"

"For saving my life today. I owe you one."

She didn't owe him a thing and the urge to tell her he loved her burned a hole in his heart. "Nan …"

She silenced him with another kiss, this one more passionate, more urgent. And then she was pulling back, withdrawing, taking her warmth and femininity with her and leaving him empty and longing. "I really do need to get some sleep," she said stifling a yawn.

He wanted to pull her back, hold her close and not let go, but decided against it. Dark circles were forming under her eyes and her forehead was swollen. He ran a hand down her arm. "Yeah, you do need some sleep. Just let me get a pillow and blanket from the bedroom then it's all yours."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later he was in sweat pants and a t-shirt and sitting on the downstairs sofa checking his Beretta. He had the light on in Joe's bathroom, which was to his left, and the door half closed. The light chased away the gloom and gave him enough light to see by. He'd rigged an alarm system of sorts on the front and back doors, a strand of small Christmas bells. One end of the strand was taped to the back of the door and the other end was thumb-tacked into the door frame. If anyone made it through the locks and opened a door the bells would alert him.<p>

He laid the Beretta on the floor next to the sofa and flipped open his cell phone then punched in Joe's number. Frank told Joe about the Town Car and the shoot-out and asked how the surveillance of the house was going. Joe sighed, said there was nothing to report, but they were going to keep at it. Frank said to call if anything developed then rang off.

He laid the phone on the floor beside his gun and fluffed his pillow. Actually, he pounded it with a fist, then laid down making himself as comfortable as possible and closed his eyes. He pulled a blanket over him and thought of Nancy upstairs in his bed. Thought of how she'd kissed him tonight – with fire and passion – the kind of kiss that makes a man go weak at the knees. Desire had burned in her lips – he'd felt it.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He wished he could see through the floor, see into his room, see her lying in his bed snuggled beneath the covers.

They were in the same building, yet it felt as though they were miles apart.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Sorry it's taken nearly a month for me to post another chapter. As I mentioned before, the end of the year is a bear for teachers. I'm headed out of town for two weeks so, sorry to say it'll be another long break before the next chapter. In spite of my feeble posting schedule, I hope you continue to enjoy the story. And thanks again for your reviews._

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><p>Chapter 17<p>

That afternoon, two men Tasha had never seen before came and took her out of the dirty damp room with no windows. Hope had surged for one brief moment when she first saw them.

Rescue?

No, the men were simply a new set of thugs. They grabbed her by the arms, yanked her off the mattress, and dragged her limp body across the floor, out the door, and up the stairs. She didn't have the strength to fight or resist. Every part of her body screamed in silent agony. She stumbled and squinted in the late afternoon sun as they led her to a brown panel van. One man jerked the sliding door open and shoved her inside then climbed in behind her and forced her facedown on the floor.

He put a hand on her back and said, "Don't move."

American, she realized and felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her spine. After a long drive, they brought her, blindfolded, to a different room, in a different house. Another basement, she realized when she ripped off the blindfold. But there were improvements. This room had cement walls, a cement floor, and a bright overhead light. The room was small, eight by eight feet, and cold, but not damp. It was a prison, no doubt about that, and Tasha did not think she was the first person to be held here.

The room had been built to hold someone for an extended period and to that end a sink and toilet had been installed. Cold and white, they stood side by side, along one wall. Tasha instantly availed herself of the toilet then rinsed her face. The water felt good, tasted good, too, and she gulped greedy handfuls. Too greedy, her stomach swelled uncomfortably and she groaned. Clutching her stomach, she backed away from the sink and staggered to the filthy mattress. She crawled on top of it and collapsed. Still no blanket or pillow.

Sleep overtook her. When she awoke the room was dark. The light had been turned off. She laid there a moment, disoriented and in pain, each shallow breathe bringing a sharp pang along her bruised and tender ribs. Then she noticed the window, high on the wall, well out of reach and boarded up – a quick, sloppy job. At the lower left-hand corner a thin crack split the wood and a sliver of light seeped through. It formed a thin beam that shone in the darkness.

Tasha was fascinated by it – mesmerized by the string of light – couldn't take her eyes off of it. A ray of hope, she thought realizing for the first time just how important sunlight was. Humans. Foolish, stupid humans, she thought, we take the sun for granted, never fully comprehending its true value. Yes, the sun was the reason for life on Earth, but it was so much more .. so .. much .. more. There was a mental and emotional connection to this special star and Tasha felt that connection stronger than she'd ever felt anything in her life.

She must have laid there an hour, maybe more, didn't know and didn't care. She watched as dust danced in the beam, watched as the light gradually faded, watched as the beam slowly slipped away taking its promise of hope with it. A great sadness filled her heart. The sun, so precious and fleeing, was gone.

Darkness crept around her, insidious and stealthy, it quietly enveloped her. It held her hostage just as surely as the men in the house. The darkness was taking its toll, pulling her mind to places she didn't want to go. She was slowly folding in on herself, mentally collapsing, losing the ability to think rationally. She was feeling the effects physically, too. Day by day she grew weaker, felt herself shrinking, becoming more frail and fragile.

Thirst brought her back to the present.

She forced herself into a sitting position. She sat on the edge of the mattress with the darkness nipping at her mind, eating away at her. She leaned forward, buried her face in her arms and pressed her head and arms against her knees. She couldn't take much more of this.

Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Hot and furious, they made salty streams down her face. She gave in to them, welcomed them with deep soul-racking sobs, sobs that heaved and strained her entire body. It hurt to cry, but it felt good, too. She imagined her pain taking flight, leaving her ravaged body and floating away in the stuffy air. In her mind, her pain floated up to the window, slipped through the crack in the wood and escaped into the night.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked, back and forth, on the mattress. Through her sobs she whispered, "I need you, Yuri. Please. Please, come soon."

Later, when she'd cried herself out, she sat there thinking, realized no dinner had come tonight. No light. No visitors. No Boris. No Ivan. Not even Mr. X had shown up. She sat there alone in the darkness with her thoughts and fears, and anger and frustration.

No dinner. She came back to that. She was hungry.

_Were_ they going to feed her? Or .. were they going to leave her down here to die?

Yes. Yes, that's what they were going to do, leave her down here to die – slowly, of starvation.

That thought took root, wormed its way through her mind and into her heart then spread like an icy wave through her body.

_They were going to let her die._

The cold fingers of dread stroked her neck and a sob burst out of her.

_They were going to let her die._

The thought terrified her, sapped her of her strength – what little she had – and a sudden weariness settled upon her shoulders. She'd never felt a weariness like this – one that pinned you down, trapped you under its oppressive weight.

She sank onto the mattress and let sleep, her only friend, claim her. She willingly slipped into a dreamless black abyss.

* * *

><p>It was twelve-fifty-five in the morning. Stars glittered in the inky black sky. Joe and Yuri sat in the Ford Expedition watching the house. Joe liked the Expedition. It was the perfect vehicle for a stakeout – big, roomy, comfortable, and had plenty of cup holders. Cup holders were important to Joe and he currently had two in use. Both held water bottles – one empty, one almost empty.<p>

Yuri had wedged the vehicle into a thicket of shrubs in a wooded grove of pine and deciduous trees that ran along the western border of Mr. X's house. In actuality, it might not be Mr. X's house, probably wasn't Mr. X's house, but that's how Joe and Yuri referred to it. Mr. X's house. The man himself might not even be in it, but that didn't matter either. All that mattered was if Tasha was in it.

The house, an old two-story farmhouse, was covered in gray clapboards and stood a good distance away, about two hundred yards. Using night vision binoculars, Joe and Yuri scanned the house. They had a good view of the west side and a partial view of the front. Light glowed in several ground floor windows. The shades were drawn, so there was no view inside. No one had entered, or left, the premises since Joe and Yuri's arrival.

Yuri wiped condensation off the windshield with his elbow, peered through his binoculars, then lowered them and said, "We're getting nowhere sitting here. We need more information. I say we recon the house."

"Sounds good to me," Joe said. He reached back and grabbed his M4 rifle off the back seat. He didn't mention the fact that two bottles of water were pressing on his bladder.

The men got out of the Expedition and stretched. Yuri had switched off the dome light so nothing lit up. They shut the doors quietly and looked at each other over the top of the vehicle.

"I'll go north," Yuri said pulling on a knit cap.

"Okay, I'll head south." Joe adjusted his knit cap then tucked the binoculars, dangling on a leather thong around his neck, into his jacket and zipped it up.

On the other side of the vehicle, Yuri did the same, then turned and headed north. He followed a faint path – two barely visible dirt tracks covered with weeds.

Joe slipped the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and headed south toward the two-lane highway they'd driven in on. Mr. X's house faced the highway. On the other side of the highway rose a forest of tall pine trees. They formed a large black wall against the night sky blotting out the stars. Joe would cross the highway and use the trees as cover while spying on the house. But first things first, he turned into a bush and unzipped his pants – time to relieve that unforgiving pressure.

* * *

><p>Yuri, using a stick he'd picked up off the ground, threaded his way north. The path had petered out leaving him to bushwhack his way through thick weeds and shoulder-high saplings. The waning moon bathed the woods in a silvery glow. Tree trunks shone as pale blue sticks. Insects jumped and chirped as Yuri beat his way through the weeds. Twenty minutes later he came to an old wooden fence delineating the northern edge of the property. Skinny trees and hardy juniper bushes grew along the fence fighting each other for space.<p>

Yuri found an opening between two bushes, pulled out his binoculars, and scanned the back of the house. There were two dark windows on the second floor. One lighted window and a door on the ground floor. The door had a curtained window and soft yellow light streamed through the thin curtain and lit up three cement steps that lead to the door. Yuri scanned the yard. To the right of the house was an old well, complete with rope and bucket. Further to the right was a small wooden shed listing dangerously. Maybe an old chicken coop, Yuri thought.

Across the highway, hidden among the pine tree, Joe scanned the front of the house. The night vision on his binoculars lit everything in varying shades of green. The house was surrounded by dirt and grass – more dirt than grass – and a few scraggily shrubs. A detached two-car garage stood to the right of the house.

Joe heard the vehicle a second before he saw its headlights. A van. It approached from Joe's right – the same direction he and Yuri had come from. The van slowed as it neared the house; turned into the driveway and drove up to the garage. It stopped and waited for the garage door to rumble up then pulled in and parked. Joe saw van doors open on both sides of the vehicle as the garage door rumbled down. A minute later a door on the left side of the garage opened and three large men came out, all carrying rifles.

They walked to a covered porch that jutted from the side of the house. A flood light snapped on as they approached the porch. Motion detector, Joe figured. One man opened a screen door and held it while another man knocked. All three men waited. A moment later, the door opened from the inside and the men entered the house letting the screen door slam behind them.

Joe radioed Yuri via their Bluetooths. "Three suspects, all armed, just entered the house on the east side. There's a covered porch there. They had to knock to get in. That makes at least four in the house. They arrived in a van that's parked in the garage. I'm headed to the garage now. I want to get the plate number."

"I'll meet you at the east corner of the garage," Yuri said and ended the call. He unzipped his jacket and withdrew his Glock 17.

Five minutes later, Joe and Yuri were crouched with their backs against the garage and weapons drawn. They scanned the porch where the three men had entered the house.

Joe, voice low, said, "I'm going around to the other side of the garage, to the door."

Yuri nodded and followed. They crept around the corner of the garage, all the while keeping one eye on the house. Joe got to the garage door and tried the knob. Locked. There was a window to his right. He put his face to it then pulled back in dismay. To Yuri, he whispered, "It's boarded up from the inside. Give me a minute I'm going to pick the lock."

Yuri nodded and positioned himself as a shield between Joe and the house. Joe shouldered his rifle and got to work, went strictly by feel as he picked the lock. It was a cheap lock, not intended to put up much resistance, and he had the door open in less than a minute. He slipped inside, shut the door, and switched on his Maglite to low. Objects gradually came into view as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

The garage was big, but didn't contain much – a brown panel van and some shelves that ran along the far wall. An old push mower was stowed in a corner with a couple of gas cans. Joe played his light over the concrete floor, found several oil stains, and decided the garage usually housed two vehicles. Maybe the other was the Town Car Frank had mentioned. The one with a shooter.

Joe stuck the Maglite in his mouth, dug in a pocket and withdrew a small notebook and pencil. He copied the van's plate number and exited the garage a minute later. Yuri was crouched beside the door. Joe knelt next to him and Yuri pointed to the front corner of the house. "Motion detectors."

Joe dug out his binoculars and peered through them. "I count three on this side of the house. One at each corner and one over the porch. How security conscious do you think they are?"

"Don't know. Let's find out," Yuri said.

Joe and Yuri devised a plan. Yuri jogged back to the fence, broke a branch off one of the skinny trees, and brought it back to the garage. Joe was in position at the corner of the garage, closest to the house, facing the porch. Yuri lobbed the branch toward the porch, into the path of the motion detector, and it lit up. He hustled to the garage and crouched behind Joe.

They waited a full minute squinting in the harsh white light, checking windows, looking for movement, looking for any sign someone had noticed the sudden bright light.

Nothing. No response at all. Not so much as a curtain twitched.

Yuri leaned forward, whispered, "Not much security."

Joe spoke over his shoulder, "They might think it was an animal. Maybe they get a lot of false alarms. Try again."

Yuri retrieved the branch, tossed it, and hustled back to Joe as the yard flooded with light.

This time there was a response. A man with a rifle appeared at the door, pushed it open, stepped onto the porch, and did a perfunctory scan of the yard. He didn't look too hard, didn't seem too concerned, and returned to the house letting the screen door slam loudly behind him.

"So much for security," Joe scoffed.

"We try again," Yuri said. "Just to be sure."

Joe nodded. "Okay."

Yuri and Joe changed tactics. They needed to get close to the house, see what kind of response that brought. Yuri tossed the stick for the third time and ran to the house, not the garage. He pressed his back against the wall, right next to the porch, and hid in the shadow of the house. Joe waited, crouched beside the garage, peering through his Leupold night vision rifle scope.

The porch door opened. Same man, same rifle. Tentative this time, he stepped onto the porch. Eyes intent, he searched the yard. Yuri was to the man's left, not more than four feet away, hunkered down beside the porch railing.

Joe had the man in his crosshairs – could take him out if needed – an easy shot. Joe tracked the man's movements as he walked around the porch. The man had his rifle at his side, not aiming it. Amateur, Joe thought, he's left himself wide open. Joe could take him out whenever he wanted and, when the dummy didn't return, he could take out whoever came to investigate.

Joe thought it through. Take down two men, great, but then the rest are ready for you. They'll barricade themselves in, call in reinforcements; use Tasha (if she's in the house) as a hostage. Could turn into a real gun fight. Not the situation Joe and Yuri wanted to get into. Not to mention, the other problem. They didn't know how many were in the house. Could be more than two. A lot more than two.

The man on the porch shook his head, puzzled. Backed up to the screen door, reached behind and opened it. Slipped into the house and shut the door. The flood light went off pitching the yard into total darkness.

Over the Bluetooths, Yuri said, "Cover me, I'm going to check the windows."

"Got it," Joe said.

Yuri slid along the wall to a window, checked it, then moved on to the next. Joe moved to the outer edge of the property and took cover behind a shrub. He moved in sync with Yuri, darting from shrub, to shadow, to shrub as they moved around the house.

Forty minutes later, Joe and Yuri were back at the Expedition. They tossed their gear in the back, got in the front and sat there a moment, feeling the cold press in on them. First light was still hours away.

Joe pulled a fresh bottle of water from his backpack. Twisted the cap and took a long chug. Settled the bottle on his knee and said, "So, see or hear anything?"

Yuri had grabbed a bottled water from beneath his seat. He drank some then said, "Voices at the first window. Maybe three people. All men." He glanced at the house through the windshield and drank more water. "They're sealed up tight in there. Not a single slit or crack in a curtain. Basement windows are all boarded up."

Joe's eyes wandered to the house. "I'd say, if Tasha's in there, she's in the basement."

"Me, too." Yuri suddenly slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "I should have protected her. I should never have agreed with Dimitri and let her go off on her own. It was too risky. I should have known that."

Joe took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm no expert, but you probably couldn't've stopped her. In my experience, most women seem to have a mind of their own. And, well, there isn't much you can do to stop them once their minds are made up." One corner of Joe's mouth lifted in a slight grin.

Yuri let out a frustrated sigh. "In that, you are correct. And Tasha is very stubborn."

"Stubborn is good. Stubborn will keep her alive. And she's smart. From what Frank said, she was on the run for three years and didn't get caught. That takes skill and intelligence." Joe let some admiration slip into his voice.

Yuri nodded. "She was very good."

"She didn't get caught until she came here." Joe frowned, a new idea forming in his head. "When I met her, I remember thinking, it was like she expected to get caught. Like, she'd reached the end of the line and she knew it. I mean, that was the whole point of giving us the package. Keep it safe because I'm not going to be around much longer." He looked at Yuri. "Why'd she come here? To Illinois. What's important here? Any family or friends?"

"No." Yuri shook his head, frowned, and thought for a moment. "I can't think of any reason Tasha would come here. But you are right. There is more here than we realize. Who are these men? Who is Mr. X? What does all of this have to do with Marcus?"

"Marcus, the financial backer for Alexander Romanoff, the guy who was going to help him start his own country. How does he tie into all this? What's he doing here?" Joe froze for a second as a thought tumbled across his mind. Then he snapped his fingers. "Marcus. Tasha must have found out he was here. That's why she came."

Yuri stared at Joe for a moment then said, "That would make sense."

"Yeah, a lot of sense," Joe said leaning back in his seat. "I could tell when I met Tasha she was holding back, there was something she wasn't telling us. This could be it, the fact she'd found Marcus, came here for a face to face, and .. but no, she met with Mr. X, not Marcus."

Yuri took a hit of water. "Maybe you must go through Mr. X to get to Marcus."

"That sounds about right."

The men fell silent, drank their water, and thought about their conversation.

Finally, Joe said, "Tasha may have found out exactly who Marcus is."

Yuri took a deep breath. "That would put her in grave danger. All the more reason we must get in the house."

"First, we need to know how many people are in there and the only way we're going to do that is by continuous surveillance."

"Starting now." Yuri finished his water and screwed the top back on. "I'll take the first watch. I'll set up in the forest, keep track of everyone that comes and goes."

"Sounds good," Joe said.

They agreed on four hour shifts. Yuri gathered up his gear – binoculars, Glock, ammo, and water – and headed to the forest. He would find a spot, set up, and get as comfortable as possible.

Joe set his watch then tilted his seat back and tried to get as comfortable as possible. It was cold. Condensation had formed on the windows. He pulled his knit cap down over his ears and zipped up his jacket. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and thought of ways to get warm. Fun ways. Two bodied ways. Vanessa came to mind and he smiled. Sunny blonde hair, light blue eyes. She could warm him up any day of the week and he wouldn't complain. Not one bit, and he had a few ideas of how. Oh, did he ever, and none of them involved clothes. But a few involved a car.

The smile faded. He remembered her abrupt departure at the office. What was that all about? He had to find out why she'd left like that. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was imagining it. He hoped so. He hated to think she might be giving up on him before they'd even had a chance to start.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Yes, I know it's been a month since I posted. I've spent way too much time tweaking this chapter and the next two. All for naught probably. Anyway, the story is moving along and some romance is coming in Chapter 20 or 21. It depends on where I break the chapters._

_As always, a big wonderful thanks to everyone who's left a review, alerted, or favorited this story. You all are the absolute BEST and YOU are the reason I keep posting. :D_

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><p>Chapter 18<p>

Ten o'clock Sunday morning Frank arrived at the Kiev Village Police Department. He walked up to the desk sergeant, placed his hands on the counter, and said, "I'm here about last night's shooting,"

The desk sergeant looked up, sleepy-eyed and disinterested. "And you would be?"

"Frank Hardy, private detective, I'm working with Detective Cutter of the River Heights PD." Okay, a slight embellishment.

The sergeant scratched his puffy face. "Oh, yeah, yeah, the shooting last night. Detective Burkhart wants to talk to you – personally. Hold on." He picked up his phone, punched in a number, waited a second then said, "He's here. One of the ones involved in the shooting last night." He looked at Frank and Frank supplied his name again. "Frank Hardy. Yeah. Yeah. Okay." The sergeant hung up the phone. "Burkhart'll be right out. You can wait over there." He pointed at some institutional green plastic chairs lining the wall.

Frank took a look at the chairs and decided to stand. A moment later Detective Burkhart came down the hall. He was a large man – big and square – square chest, square jaw and a square head with sharp features. He was in his late thirties and looked like the kind of cop that would shoot first and ask questions later. Frank's kind of cop.

Burkhart's cool blue eyes swept the room until they landed on Frank. "Frank Hardy?" he asked. Frank nodded. Burkhart approached and extended a hand. "I'm Detective Burkhart. Come on back." Burkhart led the way along a cream-colored hall.

Burkhart's office was the last door on the left. It was small, no windows and painted the same cream color as the hallway. Burkhart stepped behind his desk and motioned for Frank to pick one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Frank picked one and sat. The chair was hard and uncomfortable and reminded him of Cutter's office. Frank wondered if someone mass produced these things then sold them cheap to police detectives.

Burkhart took a seat at his desk and opened a folder. He glanced at what was inside then said, "Endeavor Detective Agency, right?"

"Yeah," Frank said, surprised. "You checking us out?"

Burkhart's cheek twitched, but the rest of his face remained hard, like a slab of granite. "Never hurts to know who I'm dealing with. I see you spent five years in the Army, two in the Army's Criminal Investigation Division. Not bad. That would've made you Special Agent Hardy. I'm former military myself, Marine Corps. Why'd you get out?"

Frank eyed Burkhart with mild curiosity. "Wanted to be my own boss. The army gave me the training and experience I needed."

Burkhart stuck out his lower lip and nodded. "Same was true for me. Looks like you've surrounded yourself with some good people." He read from the file. "Miss Nancy Drew, graduated in the top ten percent of her class at the Police Academy. Was a detective with the Chicago PD for a while. I don't envy anyone who's worked a Chicago beat. Hard duty up there. " He turned the page. "Then there's your brother, Joseph Hardy, he was in the army, too. Seven years as an MP and before that, both you and your brother worked for daddy at his detective agency in New York."

Frank frowned. "You always do such extensive background checks on people who get shot at?"

Burkhart closed the folder. "Like I said, I like to know who I'm dealing with, which side of the law they're on. It's not always easy to tell in this line of work. Gang members, drug dealers, gun runners and the like. Sometimes .. actually, a lot of the times .. innocents are caught in the middle. Most of the time it's family members, or friends, but sometimes it's innocent bystanders. Now, I don't think you're a family member, or a friend for that matter, so I need to know how you're involved in this."

"Fair enough," Frank said and gave Burkhart a quick and dirty summary of their case: Tasha's kidnapping and the car bomb, Boris' break-in, the list of names in his phone, and the capture and arrest of Ivan.

Burkhart frowned. "What were those names again, the ones in the phone?"

"Mr. X, Luka, and Wade."

Burkhart let out a troubled sigh. "Well, you're in deep Special Agent Hardy. Real deep. My department has had its eye on a couple of drug and gun runners the past six months. The guys we've been tracking are part of a relatively new gang. They've only been around three to five years, but they're growing fast and, the bad news is, they're still growing. This is a Russian gang you're dealing with, and I probably don't need to tell you, but Russian gangs are ruthless. It's all or nothing with them. They've wiped out the competition around here, literally killed them all off. The Russians have taken over all the major drug distribution pipelines from here to Chicago. Any rival gangs left, and there aren't many, answer to the Russians. Most of them actually work for the Russians. It's their only way to stay alive."

Frank looked grim. "Okay, good to know. You got names for these guys you've been tracking?"

"Yup." Burkhart leaned over and opened a drawer. He withdrew a folder, turned it around, and slid it across the desk.

Frank opened the folder and stared at the two photos paper-clipped to each side of the folder. Pertinent information was listed below each photo: name, date of birth, height, and weight. Last known address was listed as unknown for both men.

Burkhart said, "Guy on the left is Luka Andreno, he's Italian and comes from New York. He was a part-time mafia guy as best we can tell. His name came up in connection with some low level mafia murders, but the cops couldn't pin anything on him. Not enough evidence. We've had the same problem here. His name, and his partner's name," Burkhart tapped the picture on the right side of the folder, "have come up in several gang related murders. Partner's name is Wade Kuzkin, American born Russian. All we have on him is that he's from New York. We figure Andreno and Kuzkin met up there then came here. We don't know what prompted their move to our area."

Frank said, "Do you have an address for either guy?"

"Nope."

Frank blew out a breath then said, "Well, I might. Ivan gave us an address – a house out on Route 34. We think Miss Romanoff is being held there. My brother and a Russian we're working with have the house under surveillance. They saw three armed men arrive and enter the house a little after one this morning. Joe got the license plate number off the van. We think the guys in the van might be the same guys involved in the shooting. They might be Luka and Wade."

"It's possible." Burkhart nodded. "You got that plate number?"

"Yeah." Frank dug a piece of paper out of his pants pocket and gave it to the detective. Burkhart looked at it then picked up his phone and told someone on the other end to run the plate number and to get back to him ASAP. He turned back to Frank, "How about the house, got an address for it?"

Frank did and gave it to Burkhart. Burkhart passed the information on to the person on the phone and told them to check it out – find out who owned the house and to get back to him. He hung up the phone and said, "It should only take a few minutes to run the plate number."

"Good." Frank got to his feet and stretched. He'd had enough of the hard chair. "Oh, did you get any information on the car used in last night's shooting, the Town Car?"

Burkhart leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Nothing so far. The VIN number was scratched off and we didn't find any paperwork in the car. No registration, no insurance papers. My guys are working on that, too. They're looking at stolen cars for the past year. I'll let you know if we turn up anything."

"Thanks."

Burkhart said, "Another question."

Frank paused, waited.

"What's your plan for getting your client back?"

"Honestly?" Frank asked.

"Honestly. Just between you, me, and these four walls." Burkhart made a circle in the air with an index finger.

Frank was honest. He told Burkhart about his conversation with Mr. X and their planned exchange – the package for Tasha. Frank said, "My plan is to go in tonight and see if Miss Romanoff's there. If she is, we get her out. I'm waiting on the call from Mr. X. Once he gives me a time and place for the exchange then my team and I hit the house. I want to get her out before they move her again. Or worse, kill her."

Burkhart looked skeptical. "Sounds a bit risky. You don't know how many people you'll be up against."

Frank started to answer, but Burkhart's phone rang. He answered it, listened a moment, then said, "Good work. Now, get me everything you can on that organization. Like yesterday." He hung up and looked at Frank. "The plate number for the van. Turns out the vehicle is registered to a place called the _Lion Organization_. I haven't heard of it before. My guys are checking on it as we speak."

Frank clicked his tongue and said, "I might be able to help." He took a seat in the chair and leaned forward. He told Burkhart about Alexander Romanoff and his dream of having his own country. He related the facts he and Nancy had gathered from Dimitri Romanoff and the paperwork in the package. He said that Alexander's land deal had involved a mysterious financial backer named Marcus and that Marcus appeared, on paper, to be connected to the Lviv Organization. Frank added that Dimitri had said Lviv meant Lion in English.

Burkhart stoked his chin. "Huh? I haven't heard the name Marcus before. Not around here."

"How about the Lion Organization?"

"No, that's new, too." Burkhart looked truly disappointed. "But on the positive side, this gives us some new leads to investigate. I'll let my guys know about this Marcus character."

"I'm hoping you'll keep me in informed of anything they find out?" Frank raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Just like you'll keep me posted on your surveillance of the house."

"Definitely." Frank nodded then thought of something else. He went deadly serious. "So, just between you, me, and these four walls; if Luka or Wade, or any of the other scum, were to turn up dead, how heartbroken would you be?"

"A few less scum on the earth? Hell, it'd make my day." Burkhart grinned.

Frank returned the grin. Good to know, he thought. Very good to know.

Burkhart saw the gleam in Frank's eye and said, "Just don't get too cocky, Special Agent Hardy. I don't like saying good-bye to fellow crime fighters, especially ex-military personnel. God knows I've said enough good-byes in my life, in this job."

"I've got things covered." Frank sounded a little too smug.

Burkhart chuckled. He'd heard that before. "Well, if you do find you're in over your head, or you need a hand, you can always call on the Marines." He gave Frank a wicked grin that reached all the way up to his icy blue eyes.

Frank let out a soft snort. "We army guys usually call in the Rangers, but in this case, I won't turn down help from the Marines. _Semper Fi_, right?"

Burkhart smiled. "Yeah. _Semper Fi_. What's the army motto?"

"_This We'll Defend_. But truthfully, the CID motto holds more resonance for me."

"What's their motto?"

"_Do What Has to Be Done_." The look on Frank's face told Burkhart he lived by those words.

Frank left the Kiev Village PD with copies of Luka Andreno and Wade Buzkin's mug shots. He got to his SUV, popped the hatch, and laid the photos side by side. He took a moment to commit the images to memory then used his Blackberry to take pictures of the mug shots. He e-mailed the pictures to Nancy, Joe, and Yuri along with a short text message identifying the men. He also added that the brown panel van was registered to the Lion Organization.

They were getting closer, closer to Mr. X and Marcus. He could feel it.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Eleven o'clock Sunday morning Nancy met Detective Cutter at the River Heights Police Department. No day off for Cutter, not with an active investigation on going. No hat or tie either. He wore faded jeans, dress shoes, and a cashmere sweater. Nancy figured the jeans were his concession to it being the weekend.

They were in the break room getting coffee. The smell of donuts and coffee hung heavy in the air. Cutter took his personal mug and held it under the coffee machine.

Nancy plucked the cleanest looking mug from the counter and said, "How's Ivan?"

Cutter countered with, "How's your forehead?"

A corner of Nancy's mouth quirked into a small smile. "It's fine. Thanks for asking." She'd applied make-up that morning which hid the bruising, but not the swelling.

She filled her mug and slid down the counter to join Cutter at the cream and sugar station.

Cutter poured cream into his coffee, stirred, and said, "Ivan's fine, too. The doctor set his fingers last night and gave him plenty of pain medicine."

"Have you had a chance to talk to him?"

"Yep, he's talking up a storm."

Nancy's jaw dropped. "Really? He's talking?"

Cutter smiled, a genuine smile that revealed nice white teeth. He looked ten years younger. Nancy thought he should smile more often.

"Really," Cutter said and leaned against the counter. "We made a deal. He tells us everything he knows and we'll grant him a reduced sentence. That seemed to make him happy. Instead of fifteen years, he'd be looking at seven or eight. Hell, I told him, if he behaves himself he could get out in two or three. That really made him happy." Cutter sipped his coffee and swallowed. "He's already given us some new information."

"I have some new information, too. Shall we share?" Nancy arched an eyebrow. She'd seen the e-mail Frank sent.

Cutter jerked his head toward the door. "Let's talk in my office."

* * *

><p>"So," Cutter said easing himself into his cushy office chair, "tell me what you've got."<p>

Nancy set her coffee on Cutter's desk and took a seat in one of the hard chairs. "Frank e-mailed me. He has a lead on a place called the Lion Organization. Ever heard of it?"

Cutter thought for a moment then said, "No. How's this related to Miss Romanoff or her kidnapping?"

Nancy hedged a bit. "It came up in connection with a van found at the house on Route 34, the house we're watching."

Cutter frowned. He thought there might be more to the story, but he didn't push. "Got anything else?"

"Yes. Two names. Luka Andreno and Wade Buzkin. I'd bet they're the same Luka and Wade listed in Ivan's cell phone. Frank e-mailed me their mug shots and some information. Luka and Wade have quite a RAP sheet. Associated with the Mafia in New York, and connected to Russian gangs here. I wouldn't be surprised if they're responsible for Miss Romanoff's kidnapping. They might be the ones holding her now."

Cutter sipped his coffee and said, "Luka and Wade. Ivan did mention them. He seemed truly terrified of them. Said they were, to use his term, badasses. Major steroid users and extremely dangerous. He'd heard talk that they've tortured and killed quite a few people – mainly rival gang members."

"That matches what Detective Burkhart told Frank. Luka and Wade's names have come up in connection with several gang murders in the Kiev Village." Nancy sipped her coffee and tried to sound casual. "What else did Ivan say?" She needed that 'new information.'

Cutter grinned and nodded knowingly. "Okay, Miss Drew. Ivan told us that Boris stole a car yesterday and that he killed a guy to get it. He stuffed the guy in the trunk. Ivan used that car yesterday and told us exactly where he left it last night. My guys found the car this morning right where Ivan said it would be and sure enough, there was a body in the trunk." He looked at a legal pad on his desk and read from it. "The victim was .. Larry Strain, forty-three years old. Worked at a community college in the Kiev Village for the past five years."

Nancy inwardly shivered. "Sorry to hear about him. How about Kurt Swanson, did Boris kill him, too?"

"According to Ivan, he did."

"I believe Ivan." Nancy remembered her run-in with Boris and unconsciously hugged herself.

Cutter said, "Ballistics' is running a check on all the weapons we found in Boris' house. They'll let us know if there's a match."

"Speaking of the house," Nancy said, "how'd the search go?"

Cutter shook his head. "Not much there. We found a black van in the garage registered to Boris Kozlov. It was purchased three weeks ago and the plate number matches the partial Joe gave us the night your office got shot up. That places Boris at the scene of the shooting." Cutter paused a beat and ran a hand over his chin. "However, the house its self was a bust. Searching a house normally takes hours. This house took exactly one. There was nothing in it. No checkbooks, no credit cards, no computers, no cell phones, no notepads. Not even a pen or pencil for Christ's sake. Boris and Ivan did not leave a trail, that's for damned sure. We found the weapons and ammo, of course, and the forensic team dusted for fingerprints – especially in the basement, so there's that. But .. damn .. there was nothing there."

Nancy thought about Boris' cell phone which Frank still had, but said nothing. Instead she brought up a different topic. "Have you contacted the FBI regarding Tasha's kidnapping?"

Cutter let the question linger a moment, sipped his coffee. He knew the law as well as Nancy. Kidnapping was a federal crime.

"No, not yet," Cutter sighed, dejected. "But I have to. Ivan admitted that he and Boris held Miss Romanoff in the basement. He claims he was not involved in the actual kidnapping. Says she was brought to the house around one in the morning on Thursday and that he and Boris were told to watch over her – feed her and give her water. Of course, that's all the information I need to call in the FBI. I'll be making that call as soon as you leave." He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I was hoping to get Miss Romanoff back without involving the Feds."

"Me, too," Nancy said. "Who brought Tasha to the house?"

Cutter smiled showing the nice teeth again. "Ivan doesn't know. Loud voices awoke him around one in the morning. He knows the time because he checked his bedside clock. According to him, he thought about going downstairs to see what the commotion was all about, but he had a woman in bed with him and she begged him to stay. Says she didn't want to be left alone. So, he stayed put and didn't find out until late the next morning about Tasha being in the basement."

Nancy leaned forward. "Did he say why they were holding her?"

"Nope. Says he didn't care and didn't ask any questions, just followed orders. I tend to believe him. Ivan's your basic foot soldier. They're not encouraged to think or ask many questions. Too many questions can be hazardous to one's health."

"True." Nancy nodded.

She and Cutter talked some more and bounced a few ideas around. She told Cutter the house on Route 34 was still under surveillance, but there was nothing to report. She also shared the photos of Luka and Wade.

An hour later, Nancy left and headed to the office. Frank met her there at one o'clock with sandwiches he'd ordered from _Rigazzi's_. They sat at the dining room table comparing notes and eating the sandwiches. They hadn't gotten far when Joe called.

Frank answered on the second ring and put the phone on speaker. "Joe, how's it going?"

Joe's voice was low. "A dark blue Town Car just pulled up at the house. Three men are getting out, two muscle bound dudes and a guy in a suit." Joe peered through his binoculars.

"The muscle bound guys could be Luka and Wade," Frank said. "You get the photos I sent?"

"Yeah, I got 'em and I'd say it's them. These guys are huge."

Nancy said, "According to Ivan they're major steroid users."

"I believe it," Joe said. "And .. they're armed. The guy on the right just touched his back and did a three-sixty." Classic move, check the weapon holstered at your back and survey your surroundings. "My guess is they're bodyguards for the guy in the suit. He must be somebody important."

"Maybe he's Mr. X," Frank said, a sudden fear forming in his gut. He was still waiting for X's call. "They might be there to move Tasha."

"Yuri and I thought of that," Joe said. "Yuri's headed to his car. If they leave with Tasha he'll follow. They just entered the house. I'll try and get pictures of all three men when they leave."

"Great," Frank said. He prayed they left without Tasha.

Joe adjusted his binoculars and zoomed in. "Hey, I got the plate number for the Town Car. Maybe your friend, Detective Burkhart, can run it for us."

"I'm sure he can," Frank said. "Let me get something to write it down."

Nancy was already pulling a notepad and pen out of her handbag. She pushed them across the table to Frank. Thanks, he mouthed. Into the phone, he said, "Ready to copy."

After Frank read the number back to Joe to make sure it was right, Joe said, "Did you get my e-mail? I sent you a report, the specs on the house."

"Nancy and I just got to the office. I haven't had a chance to check my e-mail. I'll do that right after lunch."

"Lunch? Some people get all the breaks," Joe grumbled. His stomach grumbled, too.

Joe had not been idle that morning. He'd been up and ready to go when the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. Via the Bluetooths, Yuri had guided Joe through the morning mist and towering pine trees to his hide. It had not been easy to find in the predawn murkiness. The hide was behind a wide evergreen shrub and had a perfect view of the front of the farmhouse and the detached garage.

Joe and Yuri had eaten power bars and drank some water then spent an hour going over the physical layout of the farmhouse - noting how many doors and how many windows were on each floor. Any rescue attempt required they know all possible avenues of entry and escape. For the sake of accuracy, Yuri had snuck back to the house and double checked the number of windows.

Joe had written everything down using a method he'd learned in the army. Each side of a building has a specific color. White means front, black means back, the building's own left is red, and right is green. Floors have phonetic letter designations. Alpha means first floor, Bravo means second floor, and so on and so forth. Building openings – windows and doors – have numeric designations starting on the left and going to the right.

Joe told Frank, "The house has three entries. We've only seen them use one – red one – it's a porch door."

Nancy said, "Maybe the other two doors are boarded up." Boarded up doors and windows were a common tactic used by drug and gun dealers to keep rival gangs out and delay entry by law enforcement.

"Could be," Joe said. "Read the report and let Yuri and I know what your entry plan is. I included our suggestions."

"Thanks, Joe," Frank said. "I'll read it right after I call Burkhart and get him working on this plate number. I'll get back to you and Yuri as soon as possible."

Frank hung up and called Burkhart.

"Hardy?" Burkhart chuckled. "Jeez, you didn't even give me a chance to miss you. What's up?"

"I got another plate number for you to run. It's a dark blue Town Car that's at the house right now. Three guys showed up and entered the house a few minutes ago. Two of them looked an awful like Luka and Wade. We think the third guy might be their boss, Mr. X, the guy I was telling you about. My brother will try and get photos of the men when they leave. I'll e-mail you the photos as soon as I get them."

"Damn, Hardy. Luka and Wade? You're not kidding me, are you?"

"Hell, no. I'm hoping these guys are there to check on Tasha, not move her." Frank's voice was tight and harsh.

"Roger that. Okay, give me that plate number." Burkhart wrote as Frank relayed the number. "I'll get right on this and call you back. Oh, by the way, I've got some of my guys on standby in case you need help tonight."

"Help, huh? Well, I hope we don't need it, but it's nice to know you and your guys are standing by. Hope you're not ruining anybody's Sunday night plans just because of us."

Burkhart laughed. "Plans? To hell with plans. My guys are itching for some action."

* * *

><p>Mr. X walked into the house. Luka and Wade followed one step behind. The three men passed through a mud room. There were shelves to the left and closets to the right. Luka stepped in front of Mr. X and opened a door that led into the kitchen. He held the door open for Mr. X and Wade.<p>

The kitchen flowed into the dining room. It was one big room and poorly lit. The room smelled of cigarettes, weed, and body odor. Mr. X walked to the kitchen island in the center of the room and stopped. Luka and Wade stood on either side of him. On the island were empty pizza boxes and beer cans.

A thin layer of smoke hung in the air and irritated Mr. X's eyes. He squinted at the men in the house. One man took a long drag on a cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling.

The men in the house had gotten to their feet when Mr. X entered. They stood around a large oak table, their chairs pushed back, waiting for orders. At least he drew some respect, he thought with a rueful scowl, his eyes watering in the smoky haze. There was something to be said for respect, but still, Mr. X was worried, worried about his safety and his status. Marcus was breathing down his back, threatening fatal consequences, and all because of the package.

That damn package. Retrieve the package. A seemingly easy task, but one Mr. X had not accomplished. Frank Hardy had pointed that out, sharp and clear, drilled it firmly into Mr. X's brain.

Frank Hardy's call had brought another fear to the surface, too. Who could Mr. X trust? Really trust? If Boris and Ivan could pull the wool over his eyes – men he'd known for ten years – then who else? That thought preyed upon his mind, haunted his every move.

Mr. X did not really know the men in this house. They were Americans, born and bred, no one from the old country. Tough young men, all in their late twenties and early thirties. Men in the prime of their lives with hard muscles, thick hair, and perpetual five o'clock shadows. Men comfortable with violence. They sought it out.

Mr. X suddenly realized he hated these men. Well into his fifties and going to fat, Mr. X felt small and helpless next to them.

But what Mr. X really hated was what he'd become. An errand boy. He did another man's bidding. Supervised Marcus' drug and gun shipments, meet the buyers, sold the drugs, sold the guns, and ferried the money to Marcus in his big brick house.

Mr. X was working his balls off, and for what? Marcus was safe and sound in his big brick house surrounded by luxurious things, a beautiful wife, and guards. Plenty of guards. No one could touch him. No one.

That was supposed to be him, Mr. X. He was supposed to be sitting in a big house, not mucking around with thugs. Thugs who would just as soon slit his throat as help him.

Mr. X's world was fast unraveling, spinning out of control, and he could do nothing to stop it. Frank Hardy had seen to that. He'd planted the seeds of doubt and stirred up a world of fear.

It was this whole princess business. Kidnapping and extortion. It was ugly and sordid and beneath Mr. X. He should not have to deal with such matters. His scowl deepened as he thought about that. He turned the scowl upon the men standing before him. He needed to do what he came here to do – check on the latest shipments of drugs and guns – make sure the men hadn't stolen anything. Then check on the princess and get the hell out of there.

Mr. X nodded at Micah, the man in charge, and with more authority than he felt, Mr. X said, "I will check the shipments first."

Micah gave a quick nod, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray on the dining room table, and led Mr. X through an arched opening and into the living room. The room was a long and narrow. To the left was a wall with a partially boarded up picture window. The window faced the highway. A large flat screen TV sat in front of the window on cinder blocks that had been pushed together to create a platform. DVDs were scattered on the floor in front of the TV. Flush against the right wall was a long sofa. A pillow and sleeping bag were rolled up on the floor next to the sofa. One man slept in this room guarding the merchandise.

Micah and Mr. X walked between the TV and sofa to the far wall. Boxes were stacked along the wall three to four high and two to three deep. Above the boxes, looking like two black eyes, were two boarded up windows. Two floor lamps, one at each end of the long line of stacked boxes, provided light.

Mr. X picked a box at random and opened it. He viewed the contents, seemed satisfied, and closed the box. He moved to another box, at random, and repeated the process. Ten boxes later he grunted and said, "Everything is fine. We have a delivery tomorrow at 10pm."

Micah crossed his muscular arms. "No problem. We'll be ready."

Mr. X turned to Luka and Wade. "Now, the princess. Bring her up here, to the dining room." Mr. X would not to go down into the basement, a place where he could be easily trapped. An irrational fear, but one he couldn't shake.

Luka and Wade headed to the dining room. Mr. X and Micah followed them. Mr. X stopped in the dining room and watched as Luka and Wade opened the basement door and hustled down the stairs.

Mr. X turned to Micah and pointed at a chair. "The princess will sit there. Take the other chairs away. Push the table to the side." He waved his hands and arms as he gave directions.

Micah and his men did as instructed. Everything was ready when Luka and Wade carried Tasha through the basement doorway. They'd grabbed her under the arms, lifted her off the mattress, and held her high. Her feet barely scraped the ground as they carried her in the dining room.

The pressure under her arms was tremendous. Hot jolts of pain traveled through her shoulders and down her arms. Her bruised ribs protested the uncomfortable position. She was thankful when Luka and Wade dropped her into the waiting chair. The pain settled into a dull roar. She took slow, deep breaths and tried to focus. She wished the room would stop spinning. Wished she had more strength.

Mr. X winced at the sight of her. She'd lost weight and was pale. Her thick dark hair hung around her face in a tangled mess. She sat hunched in the chair, clutching her stomach, and grimacing at the floor.

Mr. X stepped in front of her.

Tasha saw the familiar pair of shoes. Nice shoes. Very expensive shoes. Shoes she hadn't wanted to see again.

"Look at me," Mr. X said.

Tasha did not respond. She stared at his shoes. He did not deserve such nice shoes she thought.

"Look at me," Mr. X said, his face twisting into an angry sneer.

Tasha struggled to lift her head. It must weigh a hundred pounds, she thought. Slowly, she lifted her head and peered at him through glassy eyes, her mouth half-opened. She looked as if she wasn't really there, like her mind was a million miles away.

Mr. X drew back in horror. This was not the same woman he had interrogated a few days ago. He turned on Micah. "What is wrong with her? What have you done to her? Is she drugged?"

Micah recoiled at the sharp accusations. His blond brow made an angry knot on his forehead. Then he snapped forward, hands fisted, indignant and angry. "No. Hell no! No one's been near her since she arrived. No one!"

Luka and Wade stepped in, closer to Mr. X, their hands moving to their backs, to their weapons. Micah held up his hands and backed down. Stayed mad though. Luka and Wade relaxed.

Mr. X pushed them aside and to Micah, said, "What do you mean no one has been near her? Something is wrong with her. Look!" He flung an arm out toward Tasha. She sat in the chair looking dazed and confused.

Then something occurred to Mr. X. "Who has been feeding her?" His eyes darted around the room, searching each man's face. "Who has been feeding her?"

He waited for an answer. None came, just mystified glares.

"Who?" Mr. X shouted. "Who has been feeding her?"

Luka and Wade reached behind their backs, put their hands on their weapons. Two of Micah's men did the same.

Micah held his hands up. "Whoa. Stop. Everyone. Take it easy."

The men froze in place. Stared at each other. Luka and Wade kept their hands on their weapons, ready to draw. Micah's men did the same.

Micah jerked his chin at Mr. X. "You never said to feed her."

Mr. X almost laughed. He hadn't told them to feed her so they hadn't fed her. Simple as that. Simple and stupid. He couldn't believe it. He ran a hand down his flaccid face and fought back his anger. It would do no good here, not among these men. The situation was volatile enough. One man produces a gun and then another does. Soon you have a raging gunfight and all over nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"No guns," Mr. X barked. He gave each man a hard look. Understand? They understood. Men, who had been ready to fight, gradually relaxed; hands returned to sides, neck and shoulder muscles eased back to normal, and sneers faded to clenched jaws.

Now all Mr. X wanted to do was get out of there. Get this day over with. He took a breath to calm his nerves then turned to Micah. "Tonight, Luka and Wade will come back and get her."

Mr. X saw Tasha's eyes flutter at that, come into focus. He smiled at her, the smile a jackal uses just before it kills its prey. "Yes, you are going home tonight. Frank Hardy and I have made a deal. You in exchange for the package."

Tasha frowned, shook her head rapidly, and mumbled, "No .. no. Not true."

"Very true," Mr. X assured her, nodding. "You will see for yourself tonight."

He stepped away. To Micah, he said, "Feed her. She must be able to walk when Luka and Wade come for her. They will come at eight."

"No," Tasha said, stronger this time, pushing herself out of the chair. Two men shoved her back down. She almost fell off the chair, caught herself, and yelled, "Nooo!"

Mr. X shook his head at her. "This conversation is over." He turned on his heel and headed for the mud room. He couldn't get out of the house fast enough. At the mud room door he glanced over his shoulder and saw three men gathering around Tasha, licking their lips like hungry wolves. A smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. He didn't care about her or what happened to her. Let the men have their fun. She wasn't going to survive this night anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The first man reached out and touched her cheek. Tasha slapped his hand away. He grinned, his hard little eyes full of lust and menace. Two other men moved in closer, coming in for the kill.

One with muddy brown hair reached for her hair. "C'mon on, baby."

She smacked his hand and hissed, "Get away from me. All of you."

Mr. X's words had brought Tasha to life. _Frank Hardy and I have made a deal. You in exchange for the package_.

Frank Hardy? She hadn't met him. He had no business making decisions regarding the package.

Bitter determination strengthened Tasha. She glared at the men, dared them to touch her. Wanted them to. Wanted to fight. Wanted them to kill her. Then she could not be exchanged for the package. Then Marcus would never get the package.

Three men surrounded her. One directly in front of her, one to the left, and one to the right. They smiled. Stupid, lewd smiles. Smiles with dark purposes.

The man in front of her rubbed his crotch and wagged his eyebrows at her. She sneered in disgust.

The man with muddy brown hair and a snake tattoo slithering up his arm stepped behind her chair. Bent over her and got his mouth next to her ear, said, "You know you want it, baby."

Tasha didn't turn to look at him. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

The man in front of her was staring at her breasts, a nasty gleam in his eye. She felt naked and violated under his gaze. The diamond earrings and gold chain he wore clashed with his dirty t-shirt and jeans. His hair was shaved super short making him appear bald. He was medium height and bulky, had a thick neck and big shoulders.

He ran his tongue over his lips in a lewd, suggestive manner and said, "I say we show her a good time." He nodded at the man behind Tasha and motioned to the man beside him.

Tasha tensed, gripped the seat of the chair. They'd have to pry her out of it.

The man behind her grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. Pain shot through her head and down her neck. She struggled to breathe as she looked up into his leering grin. She snarled, held tight to the chair, and kicked wildly, used all her strength. Caught the bald guy in the groin and heard him yelp. She lashed out with her hands, clawing the air. Got someone's face and heard a sharp hiss followed by a stream of expletives.

"Bitch! Goddamn bitch. You're gonna pay for that!"

Tasha's head snapped forward. The bald man threatened her with a fist. Got right in her face and yelled at her, called her filthy names. She smacked him hard across the cheek. He smacked her back, pure instinct and human reaction on his part, and sent her flying off the chair. The floor came at her fast. She plowed into it, bounced once, and lay still.

* * *

><p>Joe took pictures of the three men when they left the house. The two big brutes definitely fit the description, and photos, of Luka and Wade. The third guy was older and dressed in a suit and tie. Probably Mr. X like Frank said. Joe couldn't send the pictures via e-mail since he'd taken them with his camera. When Frank called a few minutes later, Joe told him he had the pictures.<p>

"Good work," Frank said then told Joe that the Town Car Luka, Wade, and Mr. X had arrived in was registered to the Lion Organization. Frank added that the house was also owned by the Lion Organization.

"The house, too?" Joe said. He was alone at the moment. Yuri was on his way to the office and Nancy was on her way to the hide. "So, what's this Lion Organization?"

"According to Detective Burkhart it's a distributorship."

A puzzled frown put a deep groove between Joe's dark blond eyebrows. "What? What the hell's a distributorship?"

Frank had asked Burkhart the same question. "A company that distributes things." Frank tried to keep the smile out of his voice, but didn't succeed. He knew that Joe was looking for a real answer and added, "In this case, I'm guessing it's a front for laundering money. The Lion Organization probably owes several small businesses. Burkhart's got his guys checking on it as we speak."

"Hmm, laundering money," Joe said. "Add that to the guns and ammo found at the first house, throw in some kidnapping, some homemade bombs and high powered rifles, and what do you have? The Russian mob?"

"Yeah, I think so." Frank paused a beat then switched gears. "We can back off this case if you want. Let the police and FBI handle it."

"What? Where's that coming from?" Genuine surprise in Joe's voice. "I don't want to give up the case. We've come too far. There's a real possibility we'll have Tasha back tonight. I want to see this thing through. Not to mention, Dimitri is counting on us."

It was the same response Nancy had given an hour ago when Frank had asked her the same question. He'd thought she might opt to back-out given her statement the other night – the one about not wanting to get in over their heads.

Instead, she'd said, "I think we have a solid plan. We have the element of surprise on our side. Mr. X has no idea we know where Tasha is. If we can get in and get out before they know what hit them, then we have a real chance of success."

To Joe, Frank said, "I'm glad we're all in agreement. I just wanted to make sure no one had cold feet."

"No cold feet here," Joe said. "My only concern is ammo. We're going to need all the ammo we have when we hit the house."

"All of it?" Sarcasm slipped into Frank's voice.

Joe's voice turned hard. "Yes, all of it." Two tours in Afghanistan had taught him well. MPs in Afghanistan did more combat missions than police work and Joe had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as _too much_ ammo – not in a firefight. "When all hell breaks loose," Joe said, "and it will, the first thing you learn is you can _never_ have too much ammo."

Frank ran a hand through his dark hair and thought about that. "Ya'know, Joe, I think that might be the most profound thing you've ever said."

Joe snorted. "Do a tour in Afghanistan."

* * *

><p>At three o'clock Sunday afternoon, Joe guided Nancy to the hide the same way Yuri had guided him in that morning – via Bluetooths. Nancy came in crouching, walking low and slow through the pine trees, a backpack slung over her shoulders. The forest was a tangle of shadows. Long spears of golden sunlight filtered through the gloom.<p>

Nancy got to Joe, slipped off the backpack and eased to the ground beside him. The smell of pine and damp earth gathered around her. She settled the backpack between her knees and peered through the branches of the shrub in front of her. Saw the house and garage.

Joe lowered his binoculars. "Nothing's happened since Luka, Wade, and X left."

"Good," Nancy said and unzipped the outer flap of her backpack. "I have something for you."

"Food?" Joe said an eyebrow lifting.

"No, your medicine." Nancy withdrew an amber prescription pill bottle.

Joe's face fell and a corner of his mouth twisted.

Nancy tossed the pill bottle into his lap. "You've missed a couple of doses."

Joe's lip pulled up in a sneer. "Antibiotics? I think I can survive without them."

Nancy tsked in mock frustration. "I'm sure you can. But it won't hurt to take them. Ward off infection. Although, you look like you're healing nicely."

Nancy took in Joe's appearance. Light stubble lined his jaw and lack of sleep hollowed his eyes. That, combined with the nicks and cuts from Wednesday night's explosion, left him looking rough around the edges, a bit dark and dangerous. Not a bad look on Joe. The nicks had faded to faint red marks and the cut on his right cheek was smaller and scabbed over. The Ace bandage was still wrapped tightly around his left hand.

Joe jutted his chin at Nancy's backpack. "You got any food in there? I can't take pills without food."

"I'm sure you can, but .." Nancy dipped her head and dug through the pack. "You're in luck." She came up with a white sack and handed it over. "A Subway sandwich, two bags of potato chips, and water."

Joe took the bag and quirked an eyebrow. "What kind of sandwich?"

"Ham and turkey with everything – lettuce, tomatoes, onions, mayo .. well, you get the picture. Oh, and a chocolate chip cookie."

"Damn, all my favorites." Joe smiled, happy.

"Yeah, Frank told me."

"Good ol' Frank, he's good for something." Joe had the sandwich out of the bag and was unwrapping it. "You guys read my report?"

Nancy pulled her binoculars out of the pack, draped them around her neck then dipped into the pack again. She pulled out two water bottles and placed them on the ground. "Yeah, I read the report and I agree with you. Tasha must've found out about Marcus, that he was here, and that's why she came to River Heights."

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Joe said around a bite of sandwich. "Mmm, mmm, this is good. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Nancy lifted her binoculars, adjusted them, and zoomed in on the house.

Joe ate while Nancy watched the house and told him about the proposed attack plan. They would strike at seven-thirty that evening. Mr. X had called Frank and arranged a meeting for midnight at the Woodland Mall. Of course, Frank had no intention of attending the meeting. If things went according to plan, the team would have Tasha long before midnight and the Kiev Village police; i.e., Detective Burkhart and his team, would be meeting Mr. X and friends at the Woodland Mall.

Ten minutes later Joe finished eating and started quietly cleaning up the food wrappers.

"Oh," Nancy said still watching the house, "Vanessa says, 'Hi.'"

Joe stopped stuffing trash in his backpack and stared at Nancy. "You saw Vanessa?"

Nancy kept her eyes on the house. "Yeah, when I was leaving the office she was pulling in. She'd just gotten back from the grocery store. She asked about you. I told her you were on a stakeout. She said for you to call when you get home tonight."

Joe shoved the last piece of trash in his pack. "She didn't seem upset or anything?"

"What?" Nancy lowered her binoculars and met Joe's troubled gaze. "No, she wasn't upset. She said to call, no matter how late."

"Wow." Joe zipped his pack.

Nancy frowned. "You seem surprised."

Joe picked up one of the water bottles and unscrewed the cap. "Yeah, well, I wasn't sure if she wanted to see me again. She left kind of abruptly yesterday."

"She explained that, she had dinner plans with her aunt and uncle."

"I know that's what she said, but I thought maybe there was another reason. I don't know .." Joe shrugged, "like maybe the new bullet holes in the office, the blood on the floor .. not that I can blame her." Joe pushed his pack aside with his foot and took a drink of water.

Nancy nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah, that probably wasn't the best sight to bring a girl back to after car shopping."

"Yeah." Joe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well, for what it's worth, I get the feeling she likes you. She wouldn't ask you to call her if she didn't." Nancy studied Joe's face, tried to read his emotions.

He looked away, he wasn't ready for this kind of conversation, not now, and not here. His voice was low, and soft, "I hope you're right." He turned his attention to the house and squinted. "Hey, movement. Porch door just opened." He set the water bottle on the ground and lifted his binoculars.

Nancy peered through hers and said, "Two men exiting the house. Headed for the garage."

The men entered the garage and a few seconds later the garage door rumbled up. The brown panel van backed down the driveway.

Nancy and Joe watched as the van sped west, along the highway, and out of sight.

Nancy's focus was squarely on the suspects and the case now. She murmured, "Wonder where they're going?"

"Me, too," Joe said. "Glad they didn't have Tasha with them. We weren't prepared to follow them." He blew out a relieved breath.

"When they come back, they're going to have to knock to get in, right?" Nancy said.

Joe nodded. "I think so."

Nancy got to a knee. "I'm going over there. If there's a pattern to the knock, we need to know what it is. Is there a place on the north side of the garage where I can hide? A place where I can hear them knock and not be seen?"

"There's nothing over there but tall weeds." Joe's brow wrinkled. "Do we really need to hear them knock?"

"Yes, if there's a pattern, a signal to the knocks, we can use it tonight. Simple plan, we knock, they open the door. We won't have to fight our way in."

Joe nodded. "Okay, that could work."

Nancy stood, checked the Glock on her hip, then turned to Joe. "Besides, I want a closer look at the house."

Joe reached for his rifle. "I'll cover you."

* * *

><p>Joe dropped to one knee, eased onto his stomach, and lay flat on the damp ground between two pine trees. He positioned his rifle in front of him on its bipod feet and nestled the stock into his shoulder. He looked through the scope and moved the rifle slowly to the right tracking Nancy. She had stuffed tall blades of grass in her knit cap. Camouflage. Joe watched as she made her way across the two-lane highway.<p>

The garage was to the right of the house and forty feet to the right of the garage was a cornfield. The stalks were four to five feet high. Nancy skirted along the edge of the cornfield as she moved north. The garage was between her and the house. She came to the north end of the garage and saw the tall weeds Joe had mentioned. She bent, crouched low, and crept toward the garage. She got to the weeds, got flat on the ground, and used her elbows and knees to crawl toward the corner of the garage. Blades of grass brushed her cheeks and nose. Insects buzzed, some took flight fleeing the strange intruder.

Nancy got to the corner of the garage, wiggled around, and got comfortable. Once well hidden, she phoned Joe via the Bluetooths. "I'm in position. I've got a good view of the porch."

"Good," Joe said, "because here they come."

The brown panel van turned into the driveway. Nancy heard the whine of the engine and the creak of the garage door as it rumbled up. Moments later, the engine died and she heard gruff male voices, but no distinct words. One man must have said something funny because they both laughed.

Then the garage door was going down. Nancy heard the side door open. Now the voices were clear. The men exited the garage, still joking. One said, "Princess or not, the bitch'll eat what we give her."

Both men laughed again.

Nancy's breath caught in her throat. _Princess._ Tasha _was_ here.

The men climbed the porch steps. Nancy made herself small, hugged the wall of the garage, and peered around the corner. Saw the men's backs. Both were dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Both had tattoos on their arms and necks. One man was bald and shorter than the other.

"Here, hold the damn boxes," the tall man said shoving four pizza boxes into the bald man's arms.

Nancy held her breath, strained an ear forward and listened as the tall man knocked.

_Thump, thump, thump_. Pause. _Thump, thump_.

Got it, she thought.

* * *

><p>Tasha was back in the room sitting on the mattress. A paper plate with two greasy slices of pepperoni pizza sat on the mattress beside her. Her face felt like she'd hit a brick wall at 50mph. But in spite of the pain, she was happy. And relieved. She wasn't safe and she knew it, accepted it. She was simply enjoying a moment of relative bliss. Perhaps the last one she would ever experience in this life.<p>

She felt a warm trickle on her chin and lightly touched her face with her fingertips. Blood. She'd put up a good fight before Micah, the leader, had called off his men. He'd said any man that touched her again would answer to Mr. X which, for those who had forgotten, meant dealing with Luka and Wade.

The men had backed off immediately. Two had been sent to get food.

Tasha pushed herself off the mattress and went to the sink. She splashed cold water on her face and gently washed away the blood. Dabbed her face dry with toilet paper being careful of her split lip. Didn't put too much pressure on it. Even the slightest touch set off a spark of white hot pain.

She eased herself onto the mattress and thought how good a hot shower would feel. Thought how she'd love to brush her teeth, comb her hair, have a real meal. Have some hot coffee.

She brushed away a stray tear. What she really wanted was to see her family. Her mother. Her aunt. Her brother.

But more than anything, she wanted to see Yuri. Wanted him to walk through the door. Wanted him to scoop her up and take her away, make her forget the last few days.

She stared at the door. Imagined Yuri standing there. She wanted him here, now, more than anything she'd ever wanted in her life.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Yeah, I know, it's been a while. Almost two months__. Warning: this chapter contains violence and some language, but then, the last one, did too. I personally don't like profanity and don't use it, but some characters warrant it. I've mellowed things as best I could. I thought about moving this story to the M section, but wondered if people would find it. A silly notion I quickly realized since you have the story favorited or alerted. So, after reading, if anyone thinks I should move it, please let me know and I will._

* * *

><p>Chapter 21<p>

Seven twenty-five, Sunday night. The air was clear and calm. The sky was ablaze with stars and a crescent moon shimmered above like an iridescent jewel.

Frank and the team were in position, dressed in bullet-proof vests and helmets. They had extra magazines, loaded with ammo, stuffed in the pockets of their woodland fatigue pants.

Nancy was at the south end of the garage keeping watch on the highway. An M16 rifle kept her company. She'd bought the rifle several months ago on Frank's recommendation. Under his guidance, she'd trained with it at the local shooting range never dreaming she'd actually use it on a case. Life was full of surprises.

Frank and Yuri stood on either side of the porch door, their backs pressed against the wall. Frank's M4 rifle was slung over his shoulder. Yuri's Glock was down along his thigh. Joe, M4 drawn and ready, was crouched beside Frank.

Frank nodded at Yuri then at Joe. They nodded back. Frank pulled open the screen door and knocked on the interior door. Three solid loud knocks followed by two short knocks – the sequence Nancy had described. Frank pressed his back against the screen door, keeping it open, and waited. The wait was long, longer than he'd expected, longer than he liked. Apprehension tickled his spine and adrenaline burned through his veins.

He was thinking about knocking again when the door jerked open and a tall man poked his head out. Frank rushed him – an adrenaline charged rush – and got a hand over the man's mouth. Shoved him up against the closet doors and wedged a forearm under the man's chin and pressed it against his throat – made him gag a little. Yuri spun in and pressed his Glock to the man's head. The man's eyes widened, whites showed all the way around and his eyes shifted side to side.

Joe slipped inside and positioned himself at the mud room door that led to the kitchen.

Frank thrust his face close to the man and spoke in a low forceful growl, "Make a move, or a sound, and you're dead. Understand?"

The man didn't respond, just stared, bug-eyed. Frank pressed harder on the man's windpipe, gritted his teeth, and said, "Understand?"

The man nodded, frantic.

"Where's the princess?" Frank moved his hand off the man's mouth a little so he could speak, but kept the pressure on his throat.

The man looked down to the right, pointing with his eyes. "Basement," he choked out.

"Thanks." Frank clamped his hand over the man's mouth again. "How many people in the house?"

Some sense of loyalty kicked in, Frank felt the man's jaw clench under his hand. The man's face turned hard and his eyes narrowed to black slits. He wasn't going to give up his comrades.

"Last chance," Frank said, "how many in the house?"

The man shook his head, his eyes cold and hard. And with that, his usefulness plummeted.

Frank twisted to his right, balled his right hand into a fist, and drove it into the man's solar plexus, drove it in like he was plunging a knife into him. The blow worked like a switch and shut the man down. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. Frank caught the man and eased him onto the floor.

Joe shouldered his rifle and pulled out a pair of flexicuffs. He bent over the gasping man, rolled him onto his stomach, and cuffed him – wrists and ankles.

Frank turned to Yuri. "One down." Frank jerked his head toward the mud room door and said, "Let's go."

Yuri pushed the door open, crouched, and peered into the room. He inched forward cautiously, stopped, and held up two fingers. Frank got the message – two men.

Joe pulled the cuffed man out of the house and onto the porch. Nancy was waiting. Together they carried the man off the porch and lay him beside a shrub. Joe duct-taped the man's mouth then he and Nancy positioned themselves on opposite ends of the garage. Joe at the north end, watching the porch and back of the house. Nancy at the south end watching the front door and highway.

Inside the house, Yuri tapped his chest and pointed to the right. He tipped his head at Frank and pointed to the left. Frank made an 'O' with his fingers and thumb. _Okay_.

Then they were off. A classic room entry. Yuri swept into the right and Frank swept into the left. They'd practiced the maneuver earlier at the office. Frank had insisted. Working with someone new had worried Frank. Joe was his first choice in partners, but Yuri had demanded he be part of the entry team. Frank understood. Yuri wanted to be the one to rescue Tasha. Fine with Frank, and once he'd seen Yuri in action, he'd had no problem working with him.

Yuri went in shooting, aiming high, well above the heads of two men sitting at a large oak table. Frank followed right behind, going to the left, his rifle set to three-round bursts. A rapid burst of gunfire – a lull – then another rapid burst.

Shock and awe.

Bullets tore up the wall behind the men and they dove under the table. Dust and chunks of wallboard rained down, spattered on the tabletop and chairs and floor. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Cigarette smoke and gun smoke cloaked the room in a heavy haze.

Frank kicked a chair out of the way. "Table," he said to Yuri. Together, they kicked the dining room table over. Beer cans, ashtrays and cigarette butts, and pizza boxes crashed to the floor. The table landed on its side with a loud thud and the floor shook. One man, the one to Frank's left, rolled onto his back and held up his hands.

"Don't shoot," he said, eyes wide with fear. "Don't shoot."

Okay, he won't be a problem, Frank thought and shifted his focus, and M4, to the right. The man on the right was reaching behind his back. Frank yelled, "Hands where I can see them. Now!" He pointed the M4 at the man's chest, dead-center.

Micah's hand froze behind his back and his eyes narrowed. "What the eff, man? Who the hell are you? What the eff is this?"

Frank pegged him as the leader of this little rag-tag group of misfits. Has to show he's not afraid. Frank stepped closer, pinned the man with an icy glare. Micah didn't flinch. Yuri shifted his attention to the man on the left.

Frank used his cop voice, "I repeat, hands where I can see them."

"Go to hell, muthereffer! You can't come in here and shoot the place up."

"Hands up or I _will_ shoot." Frank's voice was like forged steel, unyielding.

Micah eyed Frank for a second then said, "You a cop?"

"No." Frank's rifle never wavered from Micah's chest.

"Then who the eff are you, muthers?"

"The C.C.A."

Micah still had his hand wedged behind his back. He was laying on his side, propped on an elbow. "What? What's the eff's the C .. C ..whatever?"

Frank's patience was evaporating. "Concerned Citizens of America. Now get your hands up."

"I never heard of the C C whatever the -."

_Bang!_

Micah stared wide-eyed at Frank. A wisp of gray smoke curled from the barrel of Frank's rifle and a fresh hole in the wall smoldered two inches from Micah's head. Micah looked at Frank like he was an escaped mental patient, deranged and unstable.

Frank said, "Next time it's your head. Now, get your hands where I can see them."

Micah slowly lifted his hands.

* * *

><p>Redmond, the bald man with a big neck and thick shoulders, stood in the hallway that led to the front door of the house. He'd heard the two gunmen come in. He'd heard the shots and the cop voice and figured it was time to get out of there. Let Luka and Wade deal with this mess when they showed up in a few minutes.<p>

Redmond quietly undid all the locks on the front door. Kept one ear tuned to the kitchen, heard Micah giving the cop hell. Last lock, a big old bolt. Redmond moved the hasp and pushed the bolt clear. Quiet, real quiet. Turned the door knob and ducked outside.

Nancy saw the shaft of light when the door opened, a bright rectangle of light cutting through the dark. She saw the man exit the house and shut the door. He was one of the men she'd seen earlier with the pizza. She crouched and sprinted toward him.

Redmond saw her coming and paused, wondered what he should do. After a moment's hesitation he turned as if to run. It was a feint. Nancy was almost upon him. He spun back around and swung – a straight right aimed at her head. Nancy ducked, let the fist sail over her head, then came up and jabbed the butt of her rifle into his gut, staggering him. Next, she smashed the rifle butt into his face. Blood poured from his nose.

Redmond stumbled back wiping blood off his mouth. "Bitch!"

Nancy came in with a spinning back-kick. The rotation of her body and snap of her knee generated 1,200 pounds of force. Her right heel slammed into his stomach at thirty miles an hour. He hit the ground hard, groaning and gasping, and mumbling curses.

Nancy circled to the right and kicked him in the ribs with her steel-toed boot. He cried out and grabbed his side. Joe appeared, squatted down and jammed his rifle across Redmond's throat, choking him. Redmond started to fight then saw Nancy's rifle aimed at him.

Pain, fear, and confusion flickered across his face. "What the … who .. who the hell are you people?"

Nancy said, "You have something we want and we're here to get it. Roll over and put your hands together behind your back."

Blood ran down Redmond's chin and dripped onto his t-shirt. His face hurt and he couldn't breathe through his nose. "I .. I think I'm gonna puke," he whined.

Joe pressed his rifle harder against Redmond's throat and said, "Not what the nice lady wants to hear."

Redmond looked at Joe and then at Nancy. He gasped, struggled to breathe, tried to elicit some sympathy. He felt like he'd been sideswiped by a truck, not to mention he was being choked to death by a rifle.

"I'll roll," he groaned.

* * *

><p>Yuri opened the basement door and, over his shoulder, cast Frank a questioning look. Frank nodded, one quick jerk of his head. <em>Go!<em> Yuri was off like a shot. Frank understood. If it were Nancy in the basement he'd have been gone just as fast.

Frank was on one knee, bent over Micah checking the flexicuffs on his wrists and ankles. Frank's rifle lay on the floor two feet away. He twisted, started to reach for the rifle, but stopped in mid-reach. Something was different, a sudden change in the atmosphere. Both prisoners were as still as ice and the room was deadly silent. A warning buzz went off at the back of Frank's head, the kind of warning that stands your hair on end and tells you you're in grave danger.

Frank turned slowly toward the arched doorway that lead into the living room and froze. His heart literally seized up. A man stood in the doorway with an AK-47 pointed at Frank's head. That warning buzz got louder and time slowed. The world faded to some distant plane and tunnel-vision set in. Frank was in adrenaline overload, hearing gone, but other senses heightened. The cosmic irony of life. The last few seconds of his life would be lived in crystal clear slow-motion. He'd see the bullet speeding toward him. He'd feel the intense pain as it ripped through his body, tearing through flesh, muscle, tendons, and bone.

A nasty grin unfolded across Mr. AK-47's mouth and Frank saw the man's finger tighten on the trigger. Frank dove for the floor reaching for his rifle, one last, desperate attempt. He missed. Bullets ripped through the wall behind him, splintering wood and spitting debris in a thousand directions.

The shots were high and to the right of where Frank's head had been. The gunman wasn't an experienced shooter. May never have fired that weapon before, but still, anyone can have a lucky shot. Besides, with an AK-47 you didn't need much luck, it'll blast through just about anything. Accuracy had been sacrificed for long-range penetration. An AK-47 is lethal up to 1500 meters and can penetrate 30 layers of Kevlar. Frank's bullet-proof vest and helmet weren't going to do him one bit of good.

Yuri got to the bottom of the basement steps, heard the gunfire above, and hesitated. He glanced up at the basement door. Debated about going back, then figured, if Frank was in trouble he'd radio for help.

No call for help, so Yuri peered down the narrow hall. Four doors – two on the left, two on the right. Yuri opened the first door on his right, found the light switch and flipped it on, and in one horrifying second, wished he hadn't. Blood. Blood everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, and on a metal table – the kind you find in a morgue. To the left was a wooden table with saws, their blades stained brown with blood. A shelf on the wall above the table held electric drills and bits and hammers. There were more tools, but Yuri didn't get a good look. The stench backed him up, pushed him out of the room. Bile rose in his throat and he pulled the door shut. He slumped against the wall and took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, then pushed off the wall and headed for the next door. A set of keys dangled from a hook outside the door. Yuri yanked them free and yelled, "Tasha."

Upstairs, Micah yelled at Mr. AK-47, screamed at him to stop shooting. Micah used every profanity in the book, cursed Mr. AK-47's mother, brother, and girlfriend.

Mr. AK-47 didn't care. The rifle held him in an intoxicating grip. It was like a drug – exhilarating and addictive. It pushed him to the edge and rattled his brain. He wanted to ride this high as long as possible, take it wherever it took him. He liked seeing people cower and scream, liked the fear in their eyes. He couldn't get enough.

Frank had pulled Micah and the other man closer to the tipped over table and wedged the three of them near the huge center post. It was thick and wide and had four big oak legs that curved out from it.

The shooting stopped and the gunman shouted, "Come out, muthereffer. Get your ass out here where I can see you!"

Frank's rifle was on the floor, out of reach, he unholstered his Beretta, racked the slide back and yelled, "Not going to happen."

Bullets ripped through the edge of table just above Frank and the men's heads. All three dove for the floor, tried to make themselves one with the cold, hard surface. Chewed up chunks of wood pinwheeled through the air. Sawdust and bits of wood rained down upon the men.

Micah screamed, "Dammit, Bee! You're going to hit one of us. For Christ's sake, stop shooting."

Frank calculated how many bullets the gunman had left. A typical magazine held 30 rounds. This guy had to be close to empty he wasn't being judicious about his use of ammo that was for damn sure.

Bee snarled, "He needs to come out. Quit hiding like a pussy."

Micah coughed, choking on the cordite heavy air, and yelled, "He's got a gun, Bee. He could kill Adams and me if he wanted. He hasn't. I'm telling you to stop shooting. You hear me? I'm giving you an order."

"He needs to come out," Bee growled, no compromise in his voice.

Micah eyed Frank then yelled over the table, "Ain't going to happen, Bee. I'm telling you, stop shooting. You hear me?"

"Maybe he'll listen to me," Joe's voice. He stood at the front door, flush against the doorframe and had Bee lined up in his crosshairs.

Bee spun in Joe's direction and fired, no attempt to aim. Joe ducked outside a fraction of a second before a spray of bullets peppered the wall and doorframe.

Over the Bluetooths, Joe said, "Frank, what are my orders?"

Frank knew what Joe was asking, but didn't answer. Instead, he eased himself up and peered over the jagged, torn-up edge of the table. He saw Bee load a new magazine in the AK-47. Frank brought his Beretta up and aimed it at Bee's head. "Drop the weapon."

Bee looked at Frank, grinned and shook his head. He brought the AK-47 up. His eyes told Frank more bullets were on the way.

Frank tried again, "Drop the weapon and you live."

Joe, over the Bluetooth, "Orders, Frank?"

Frank watched the grin on Bee's face turn into a nasty smile, thought, he's bent on destruction, he's gone over the edge. To Joe, Frank said, "Engage target. Fire at will."

Translation: permission to kill.

Joe slipped into sniper mode. He poked his M4 around the doorframe, got into position, and took nice steady breaths. Bee let loose a hailstorm of bullets, a big sweeping arc that tore through the dining room. Frank dropped behind the table, didn't even get a shot off. Bee spun toward the front door, ready to unleash more damage. A bullet met him dead-center in the forehead and he dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The AK-47 clattered on the floor and a faint pink mist hung in the air where his head used to be.

* * *

><p>Tasha lay on the mattress, bruised and broken, unable to move. She heard his voice, a plaintive wail, a howl from the depths of his heart. But she'd heard his voice so many times in the last few hours. Always a dream. She could trust nothing. Reality had slipped beyond her grasp.<p>

His voice again, closer now, soft and tender. "Tasha."

She looked up, met his eyes. Fear and horror etched his face. Her right eye was swollen shut, her face a riot of colors.

He's not real, she told herself. Only a dream. Fear clung to her, held back her hope.

A warm touch on her shoulder – solid and real. Maybe, she thought, maybe. She tried to say his name. Her swollen lips muddled the word.

He smiled at her, love and concern filled his eyes. He spoke in Russian, low and tender, "You're save now, Tasha. I'm taking you out of here."

She tried to smile. Her swollen lips prevented it. She felt his arms slip around her, encompass her in his warmth and scent. Not a dream. He was real and he was here.

Fear released its hold and silent sobs bubbled forth. He'd come, just like she'd imagined.

* * *

><p>Joe walked to the dead man and nudged him with a boot. No response, definitely dead. Bullets to the head tend to have that effect. Joe leaned and peered into the living room. Frank got to his feet and holstered his Beretta.<p>

Micah yelled, "Bee? You hear me? You okay, man?"

"He's dead," Frank said and collected his rifle off the floor.

"I tried to warn him," Micah said. "Now what?"

Frank didn't answer. He joined Joe in the living room. "Good work, Joe."

Joe pointed at the far end of the room with his rifle. "Wonder what's in the boxes?"

"Check it out," Frank said. "I'll check on the rest of the team."

Joe headed toward the boxes and Frank radioed the team, "Check-in time, everyone."

Nancy responded first, "Nice to hear your voice, Frank." Relief tinged her voice with subtle emotion. Listening to the shootout had not been easy, but now she knew Frank was okay, she focused on the business at hand. "I've got two down outside, both tied up, neither one talking. I'm posted at the end of the driveway watching for visitors."

Frank said, "Good, stay put. We have three down inside, one dead. Joe's checking a stack of boxes in the living room."

Yuri came over the line, "I have Tasha. She's badly beaten, but alive. I'm bringing her up. I called Dimitri. He's meeting me at the hospital."

In the living room, Joe held up an AK-47, the contents of the boxes. Frank said, "Nancy, new plan, you get the vehicle in place for Yuri. I'm calling Burkhart. He needs to get him over here, ASAP. We've got one dead and a boat load of illegal weapons in the living room."

Yuri, his voice strained, said, "There's a torture chamber in the basement. He'll want to see that, too."

"Got it." Frank steeled himself for a long night. He had no way of knowing the worst was yet to come.

* * *

><p><em>Just a quick thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Thanks to: Severedwasp, theaprilbaby (who graciously looked over an early draft of this chapter), Zenfrodo, Eternal Evening, Caranath, George99, Mrs. Frank Hardy, Preadventure (thanks for letting me know what line you liked- made my day), Unobtrusivescribe, , and guests.<em>


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Yes, I know I've been missing in action for quite a while. Sorry about that, but work and life have been incredibly busy and I don't see that changing for the next three months. All I can say is, summer vacation can't get here fast enough!_

Chapter 22

Yuri carried Tasha to the waiting car. Nancy left the engine running and opened the back door for Yuri. Tasha moaned as Yuri gently laid her on the back seat.

"Rest," he said running a hand lightly over her tangled hair. "The hospital is not far."

He shut the door and jumped into the driver's seat. Nancy backed away from the vehicle and watched as Yuri carefully maneuvered the car onto the two-lane highway.

Nancy had suggested an ambulance, but he'd refused saying he didn't want Tasha out of his sight, not for a second. Nancy breathed a sigh of relief as the car disappeared from sight. Mission accomplished. Tasha was safe.

In the kitchen, Frank was on the phone with Detective Burkhart. "Joe's counting the boxes now, but I'd say there's at least a hundred. There's ammo, too. Boxes of it."

"Good thing I had my guys ready," Burkhart said. "We're loading up now. ETA about thirty."

"Roger that," Frank said and disconnected. He exhaled a long, slow breath and adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. Thirty minutes. He didn't relish the long wait. He was ready to hand this mess over to Detective Burkhart and call it a night.

The stench of unwashed men, cigarettes, old pizza, and beer hung in the air. The house, with its' boarded up windows, felt like a prison. Earlier, Frank and Joe had searched the second floor and found four bedrooms and two small bathrooms. No weapons or ammo, just personal items. Five men lived in the house. One slept downstairs on the sofa in the living room and four slept upstairs.

One man, Bee, was dead. His body lay next to the staircase where Frank and Joe had moved it. Two men were tied up outside, one by the side porch and one by the front door. Two other men, Micah and Adams, were cuffed at the ankles and wrists and sat with their backs against the kitchen island.

The big old oak table lay on its side a few feet away. Pizza boxes, beer cans, and ashtrays littered the floor. Frank kicked a beer can out of the way and scooped a tipped over chair off the floor. He carried it toward the bound men and placed it in front of Micah, let the legs hit the floor with a solid thud. Micah lifted his head, eyes narrowing into a hostile, suspicious glare.

Frank eased himself onto the chair, laid his rifle across his lap, and stared down at Micah. Gave him the _I have some questions and you have some answers_ look.

Micah gave Frank the _Go to hell, muthereffer_ look.

In a calm voice Frank said, "Who are Luka and Wade?"

"Guys you don't wanna know," Micah said in an equally calm voice.

Frank saw Adams' eyes get big at the mention of Luka and Wade. Adams appeared young, no more than twenty-four, and green. Probably a new member of the group.

Frank jerked his chin at Adams. "What about you? You afraid of Luka and Wade? You wanna end up like your friend over there?" Frank thrust a thumb toward Bee's lifeless body.

Adams opened his mouth to speak, shot a glance at Micah, saw Micah's angry scowl and shut his mouth fast. Just shook his head and stared at the floor.

Frank got it, loyalty and silence were important in this group. Speak, and you die. Give up a member, and you die. Step out of line, and you die.

Frank tried a different approach. "Okay, the police are on the way and you're both facing some heavy charges. Kidnapping, torture, gun trafficking, and that's just for starters. You're both looking at serious jail time – twenty or more years I'd say. Wait till the police tear this place apart. No telling what they'll find. Then you could be looking at life behind bars." Frank paused letting the information sink in. "Now, I'm going to give you a chance to help yourselves out here and help me all at the same time. Answer some questions and maybe I can get some of the charges dropped … or at least reduced."

Frank slid his eyes over each man. Neither one spoke, just kept their heads down. Anger rippled along Frank's shoulders and his jaw clenched. "Okay then, change of topics. Who beat up the princess?"

Micah's head came up, eyes dark and brooding. "That was Bee and Redmond and Jarrett. I called them off before it got too far. I don't hold with beating on women."

Frank came half out of his chair, teeth bared. "That was no _little_ beating. She looked like she'd been hit by a semi."

"Hey," Micah snapped, "that wasn't us. She was beat to hell and back when Luka and Wade brought her here."

Frank glared at Micah for a second then settled back in the chair. "Luka and Wade. When'd they bring her here?"

Micah's jaw twitched and he looked away. He hadn't meant to mention Luka and Wade. Damn, too late now. "Yesterday. Around four, I think. I don't know for sure."

"Mr. X came with them, didn't he?"

Micah studied the floor a moment, frown lines deepening and stretching across his forehead. Finally, he brought his head up. "What the hell do you want, man?"

"I want to know where I can find Luka and Wade." Frank stared hard at Micah.

Micah shook his head. "No you don't. Believe me, you do not want to find those muthers."

"Yes, I do. I find them, I find Mr. X."

"X?" Surprise and disgust colored Micah's voice. "He's a washed up, fat, old Russian. What do you want with him?"

Nancy's voice, over the Bluetooths, interrupted the interrogation. "Frank, we have company." Hidden in the cornfield, she watched the highway with a pair of night-vision binoculars. "A Town Car is coming in slow. It's almost at the driveway."

Frank looked at Micah and tapped the Bluetooth on his ear. "My partner outside says there's a Town Car approaching."

Fear zipped across Micah's face. He tried to play it off. "Looks like you got your wish. That'd be Luka and Wade. They're here for the woman, the princess."

A warning buzz went off, a low frequency hum at the back of Frank's brain. He spoke into the Bluetooth, urgent now, "Nancy, stay hidden. Do not engage targets. I repeat, do not engage targets. Copy that?"

"Affirmative. Do not engage targets." Nancy slipped silently out of the cornfield and crept toward the garage. "The car's parked between the house and the garage," she said. She pressed her back to the garage wall and peered around the corner. "Engine's still running. Two men are inside. Looks like their talking. They don't seem to be in a hurry to get out."

"It's Luka and Wade," Frank said getting to his feet. "Stay out of range and keep me posted."

"Roger. I'm heading to the cornfield for cover. I'll move north and find a place with a good view of the porch. I'll report back when I'm in position."

But Nancy didn't move. She stayed put, peering around the corner of the garage watching the men in the car.

The car blocked Nancy's view of the man cuffed and lying on the ground by the porch. She thought the men in the car might be able to see him. Duct tape kept him from yelling out, but he could wiggle or do something to get their attention. The man at the front door could yell out. Because of his bloody nose she and Joe had not duct taped his mouth. Nancy found it strange that neither man cried out for help.

An eerie silence filled the night.

Car doors opened and the flood lights snapped on as Luka and Wade stepped out of the vehicle. Nancy got a good look at the driver as he shut his door. She figured him for Wade. Russian heritage showed in his features. He was tall and muscular with sandy colored hair pulled into a ponytail. Diamond earrings glittered in the flood lights.

Nancy's gaze moved to the passenger, Luka. He reminded Nancy of a shark, alert and ready, always searching for prey, or in this case - threats. His dark head maintained a constant swivel. Then in one swift move, he withdrew a gun at the small of his back and spun in Nancy's direction.

Quick, she pulled her head around the corner and flattened herself against the wall. Had he heard her? Sensed her presence?

Her heart hammered in her chest. Fear and panic tangled in a knot that tightened her throat. The night air was cold, yet sweat lined her brow and chest. Stars winked above mocking her. She should have taken cover immediately. She'd said she would and hadn't. Foolish. Very foolish.

She sucked in a shallow breath and held it. A cautious step to the right took her deeper into the shadows. She stifled the urge to run, instead, calmed herself with slow, even breaths. She cocked an ear and listened.

"What the .." one of the men said.

Blood thundered in her ears blotting out the rest.

Had they seen her?

No, the comment was likely directed at the man lying on the ground. They'll untie him and question him. That will take time. The perfect diversion. Get to the cornfield and hunker down, she decided.

She gripped the M16 in one hand and pressed the palm of her other hand flush against the garage wall. Slowly, she felt her way along the building – small step after small step. Men's voices, low and hushed, floated to her. One cursed and another shushed him. Her fingers touched the corner of the garage and curled around it. The cornfield stood forty feet away. Forty _open_ feet. No cover.

She thought she heard the snick of a round being chambered. Hard to be sure, the pounding in her ears rendered her almost deaf.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw a shadow moving toward the driveway, the barrel of a gun clearly outlined. Then, from the vicinity of the porch, the report of a pistol followed by a sickening sound, one she'd heard before. A bullet impacting a body.

The flash of a memory: third year on the police force, one in the morning. She and her partner, Ruseck, had a drug dealer cornered in a dirty parking lot behind a defunct music store. The smell of grease and oil mingled with the hot, humid air of summer.

She stood by the open door of the police cruiser talking into her shoulder set, requesting backup.

_Ruseck: Assume the position. Lace your hands together and place them on your head_.

Hollow eyes. The drug dealer, a three time offender, had nothing to lose.

_I repeat, place your hands on your head!_

A dark hand dipped inside a worn leather jacket.

_Hands out! Hands out!_

The barrel of a pistol came up.

Ruseck panicked, pulled out his service revolver. The flash of the muzzle. Two bullets. One in the chest, one in the head. Two dull thuds. A sound Nancy would never forget. A sight she'd never forget either, the drug dealer sprawled on the pavement, a dark pool forming around him.

The man by the porch was dead. She knew it as surely as she knew her name. And she knew she was in grave danger.

In high school, she'd been on the track and cross country teams. Third and fourth place trophies marked her as a decent runner. Tonight she would run for her life.

She turned and bolted, took off like she was coming out of the blocks. Desperation powered her legs. Cold air grabbed at her lungs. She got to the cornfield, elbowed her way through the stalks, and dove to the ground. She landed in a heap in a rut between the stalks and started crawling. After a few feet, she stopped, craned her head to the side and searched for the gunman. She spotted movement near the corner of the garage.

The flood lights went out pitching the world into blackness. Someone on the other side of the garage moved and the lights snapped on again. Nancy searched the shadows, saw Luka crouched by the garage wall.

She shrank, flattened herself onto the damp, bumpy ground. Her hot breath pooled around her face and the pounding of her heart echoed in her head.

Luka's voice, like a specter in the night, "I know you're out there. I can feel you, _love_."

Nancy took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. Her rifle, wedged beneath her, bit into her ribs. Dry leaves tickled her cheek. She lay perfectly still, listening.

"You're close. I can sense you. You're afraid. I can feel it .. your fear." An amused snicker. "Come on out, love. I won't hurt you. We can play a little."

His voice was rich and sensual, frighteningly seductive. _Love_, the way he said it, the intimacy it evoked; chilled her to the bone. His voice called to her, tugged at some base level. She imagined he'd used that voice on many an unsuspecting lady of the night, luring them to his bed. They never knowing the evil lying beside them.

Nancy rolled onto her side carefully, worried about the movement of the stalks. She grabbed her rifle by the barrel and started to hoist it into firing position. Frank's voice stilled her.

A soft whisper in her ear, "Nan?"

Her throat tightened. She couldn't respond, not without the risk of Luka hearing.

Luka's husky voice crept across the short distance between them, "Oh, love. Let's not play hard to get."

Soft footfalls on damp ground sent a small tremor skittering up Nancy's spine. The ruts ran parallel to the garage. She was not in a good firing position. She pulled on the rifle and quietly maneuvered it, working to get it perpendicular to the garage.

"Nan?" Frank's voice again, concerned now.

Luka's voice, closer, "I hear you, love. I know you're close."

Nancy had no response for either man. She kept at the rifle.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Inside the house, Frank swore under his breath and turned to Joe. "We have trouble. Nancy's not answering."

Joe frowned, thought about the shot they'd heard. He couldn't voice his fear, didn't want to think it possible.

Frank shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow beneath his helmet. "No," he said. "I know what you're thinking. That shot we heard. That was one of their own. They shot the guy by the porch." Frank stared at Joe daring him to say otherwise.

Joe opened his mouth to speak. The _crack_ of a pistol cut him off.

Instinct and training sent Joe and Frank into a one knee crouch, weapons at the ready. Joe motioned with two fingers in the direction of the front door.

Frank nodded. "They shot the other guy. Luka and Wade aren't messing around."

Micah, at the kitchen island, hissed, "I told you, they're crazy, psycho muthereffing bastards. They'll kill every last one of us. It's what they do. _Kill_. Untie me and Adams, give us some guns, we'll fight with you. Make it four against two, better odds."

Frank thought for a moment. He needed to deal with the situation, not let fear take over. And fear hovered close, its icy fingers pricking his neck. He needed a plan, a way to defend themselves, and the captives, and Nancy.

She's alive. He wouldn't .. couldn't .. accept any other answer.

"We need a diversion," Frank said to Joe. "We have to pull Luka and Wade's attention here, to us."

Micah, twisted around, his eyes large and pleading. "I'm telling you, Adams and me'll help. We don't want no part of Luka and Wade. Let us defend ourselves."

Frank looked at Joe. Joe set his jaw and gave a slight shake of his head.

"We have to move them though," Frank said. "They're dead if we don't. Luka or Wade could come through a door at any minute."

"Way ahead of you, Frank," Joe said. "You haul those two to the basement and I'll create a diversion."

"Roger that." Frank slung his rifle over his back and hustled to the kitchen island. Got to Micah and Adams, reached down to a holster on his right calf, and withdrew a knife. He'd brought most of his toys tonight. Didn't like to see them gathering dust on a shelf. However, with Nancy's status in question, tonight's game had gone sour.

Frank held the nine inch blade to Micah's throat. "I'm going to cut your ankles loose. Not your wrists." The tip of the knife dipped and came to rest below Micah's Adam's apple. "Try anything and you're dead."

Micah nodded in rapid jerks. "Yeah, got it, man. Listen, I'm serious, we'll fight with you. I don't want to meet Luka and Wade unarmed. You hear me?"

"Call me crazy, but I'm not convinced by your sudden desire to help. I'm taking the two of you to the basement. You'll be safe there." The knife sliced through the flexicuffs.

Micah gritted his teeth and the veins in his neck bulged. "You're making a mistake."

Frank ignored Micah and cut through Adams' flexicuffs. The young man was shaking badly. Frank sheathed the knife, helped Adams to his feet, and guided both men to the basement.

At the doorway, Micah jerked free of Frank's grip. "I'm telling you, we're with you. Four's better than two. You need us."

"And like I said, I'm not convinced by your sudden desire to help. You'll turn your weapon on me, or my brother, the minute Luka and Wade are taken care of." Frank nudged Micah toward the steps. "You'll be safe downstairs. My brother and I'll draw their fire. We'll keep Luka and Wade away from you. I promise."

Micah spit on Frank. The gob landed on the front of his bulletproof vest. "That's what I think of you and your fucking promise."

Anger rose up hard and fast. It traveled down Frank's arms and into his hands. The desire to punch Micah in the face and kick him down the stairs was nearly overwhelming. Frank's temper had always been his nemesis. Usually kept on a short leash, it begged to be freed. Frank grabbed Micah by the front of his t-shirt and slammed him against the wall. "You have picked the worse possible time to mess with me."

Micah stared long and hard at Frank. Unbridled fury shone in Frank's eyes.

Frank's voice was a low menacing rumble, "You have a choice, either walk yourself down those stairs or find yourself facedown at the bottom spitting out teeth."

Like Frank, Micah didn't back down easily. He held his ground a moment longer, Frank's knuckles pressing painfully into his chest. Micah was no coward, but the handcuffs subdued him. He knew when to fold. "Adams and me can make it down on our own."

"Smart choice." Frank released Micah's shirt.

Frank watched the men stumble down the steps then closed the door.

Time to refocus. Get his head back in the game, get geared up and ready for Luka and Wade.

Joe was in the mudroom, a flashbang cradled in his hand. He'd found it in the living room stashed amid the guns and ammo. Always nice when the enemy provided weapons.

Joe eased open the screen door and tossed the flashbang out. Two seconds later – a flash of blinding light and a loud bang. The ground shook.

Wade, who'd been approaching the porch, stumbled and fell. Temporarily blind and deaf, he groped the ground in search of his handgun.

Luka jerked his head in the direction of the house. Nancy fired at the dark shape. A bullet smacked the ground by Luka's feet. Another zipped over his head. He returned fire.

The muzzle blasts had pinpointed Nancy's position. Bullets cut down cornstalks and slammed into the ground around her head and shoulders. She set her rifle to semi-automatic and fired back.

A spray of well-grouped bullets tore up the ground around Luka and backed him to the garage. Nancy saw the shadowy figure retreating and eased off the trigger.

Luka fled around the corner of the garage. Wade, still partially blind, was on his hands and knees pawing the ground searching for his gun.

"What the f-k?" Luka hissed at Wade.

Wade found his gun and pushed to his feet. "Stun grenade. One of the bitches inside threw it out."

"They wanna fight? We'll give them a fight." Luka yanked open a car door and pulled out an AK-47. Loaded magazines tumbled to the ground. Luka grabbed the mags, one by one off the ground, and shoved them in pockets – pants and jacket. He kept watch over his shoulder wondering if the woman would make a move.

Wade dashed to the driver's side of the car and withdrew an AK and more ammo. "What's the plan?" he called over the top of the car.

Luka put a finger to his mouth and crept around to the driver's side. He took a knee next to Wade. Wade's ears rang from the explosion. He leaned close to catch Luka's words.

"We hit the house. Take out everyone inside," Luka whispered.

Wade frowned. "What about the woman? Why not go after her? That'd draw the men out."

"No," Luka said. "Forget the woman. By now, if she's smart, she's found better cover. We focus on the men. They're trapped inside. We attack them and draw out the woman."

Luka rammed a magazine into his rifle and chambered a round. Wade did the same.

* * *

><p>"I'm okay." Nancy spoke via the Bluetooth as she moved through the cornfield. "I exchanged gunfire with one of the men, Luka, I think. No one was hit. I'm headed north to the wooded area behind the house. Luka and Wade are near the porch. I don't have a visual on them."<p>

Frank, relieved, "Glad you're safe. You had me worried. Find cover and stay out of range."

Nancy slid over a split-rail fence, crouched, and peered between the rails. "I'm in the woods. I can't get a fix on Luka and Wade."

"Don't worry about them," Frank's voice was sharp. "Joe and I can handle them. I need you to stay put and keep me posted."

Nancy understood Frank's rebuke. She deserved it. She'd made a mistake earlier and had almost paid with her life. No more mistakes. She would stay put and keep watch. "Roger that," she said.

Frank, calmer, said, "Burkhart and his team are on the way. Backup should be here soon. Twenty minutes at most." He hoped.

"I like the sound of that." Nancy moved to her right and crouched between two juniper bushes. She saw the Town Car. Then Luka and Wade popped up.

Nancy sucked in a breath. "Luka and Wade are headed for the front of the house. They're armed with rifles, AKs I think."

"We're ready," Frank whispered.

Nancy waited and watched.

Frank and Joe hustled to the kitchen sink and hunkered down in front of it. Joe took aim at the arched doorway leading to the front door. Frank aimed his rifle in the direction of the mudroom. He had a partial view of the doorway.

A split second later, the boarded up window over the sink exploded. Bullets poured through the window along with cold air and the distinctive sound of AKs set to automatic. The sound was tremendous. Frank and Joe threw themselves against the kitchen cabinets and made themselves as small as possible.

Glass bounced along the counters. Chips of wood spiraled through the air. Chunks of wood fell into the sink and onto the floor. Bullets shredded the walls on the far side of the room. Dust and gunpowder filled the air. A slight lull, probably for one shooter to reload, then another burst of gunfire.

This was an all-out blitzkrieg. Just shoot the hell out of the place. No holds-barred. Take no hostages, no surrenders. Not a bad tactic, Frank thought. Keep the enemy on the defensive with no time to formulate an offense.

Doubt suddenly assailed Frank. Did he and Joe have enough ammo? He'd brought everything he could find. But was it enough?

How long could he and Joe hold off these guys? Could they last twenty minutes?

Frank tasted real fear and for a moment he was paralyzed.

Not now, he thought. Not now. Turn it around. Use the fear. Harness it. Turn it to hate and anger. Use it against Luka and Wade.

The shooting stopped and a spine tingling silence settled around the brothers.

Frank looked at Joe. Joe projected an aura of calm. Mister calm, cool, and confident under fire. Thank God. Frank needed that right now. Needed some of that confidence. Needed some of that eerie calm, too.

A weird light shone in Joe's eyes and in that instant Frank knew something he'd never known before. Joe lived for moments like this – these life and death situations. Joe liked being a hair's width from annihilation.

A death wish? Guilt over Iola's death?

Frank didn't have time to figure it out. Whatever the reason, Joe was in his element and rock steady. He was the perfect partner. He had experience with violent attacks – ambushes while on patrol in Afghanistan, house clearing missions that had turned into ugly gunfights. Every time he left the wire (compound) his life was in danger. No safe days in Afghanistan.

Frank's respect for Joe doubled.

Frank loved his brother. He'd give his life for Joe's. He'd kill to save his brother.

Joe cracked a mirthless grin. "All hell has officially broken loose, bro."

"No kidding. Any suggestions?" Frank's voice sounded a little high, a little strained. He needed to pull it together.

"Yeah," Joe said, "stick to the basics. Surprise, speed, and violence of action."

Frank nodded.

"We don't back down." Joe's eyes darted around the room as he spoke. "We dominate the room, but don't hurry."

Frank got it. Joe was reciting basic room clearing tactics. Smart move. It pulled Frank out of his fear and redirected his focus. Follow procedures and you live. Mess up and you die.

"Slow is smooth," Frank said listing the next tactic.

"Smooth is fast," Joe said.

"Recharge your ammo at every pause."

"And violence of action," Joe said.

Frank gave Joe a look. "You already said that."

Joe smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Never underestimate that one. It saves lives."

"Right." Frank nodded. "We need cover."

Joe pointed at the stairs leading to the second floor. "We take the high ground."

Joe and Frank scrambled to their feet and dashed toward the staircase. Halfway there, automatic gunfire rang out from the mudroom door. Bullets, like angry bees, swept into the room impacting walls, ceiling, and the staircase. Debris spun crazily through the air.

Frank and Joe dove for cover. Frank slid across the floor on his side clutching his rifle. He slid to a stop by the staircase and got into a crouch. Joe crouched on the other side next to Bee's dead body.

More automatic gunfire, long and sustained, a whole magazine dump. Bullets ricocheted in all directions hitting walls with little hammer-like thuds.

"Time for some violence of action," Joe screamed into the Bluetooth. The gunfire was so loud Frank wouldn't have heard him otherwise.

"You got it," Frank yelled back.

Frank and Joe set their rifles to auto and returned fire. A desperate move meant only to suppress and back off the enemy. Frank and Joe lay down a blistering wave of gunfire. Luka and Wade receded into the mudroom. Frank and Joe seized the opportunity. They maneuvered backward up the stairs, their heads and rifles swinging in sync.

Luka and Wade sensed their prey escaping and emerged from the mudroom guns blazing. Frank and Joe rained down fire on every muzzle flash they saw.

At the top of the stairs, Frank stepped into a bedroom and rolled back against a wall. Sweat dripped down his neck. His chest pounded. The sound of gunfire echoed in his ears. Blue-gray smoke drifted from the barrel of his rifle.

_Recharge your ammo at every pause_.

He smacked a palm against the rifle's release button and let the empty magazine drop. It clattered on the wood floor, but no one heard. The crack and whine of gunfire outside the bedroom masked the sound. Frank slammed a fresh magazine home and chambered a round.

Bullets burst into the room, ricocheted off the walls, and died on the floor.

_I gotta get back out there._

Frank crept to the doorway. A bullet blasted the wood frame an inch from his face. Splinters flew in all directions. He felt a sharp pain on his cheek.

_Damn_,_ that hurt._

Frank ignored the pain and popped his head out of the doorway. Cordite and gunpowder filled the stairway. It was like looking through a light morning fog.

Joe, across the hall on bended knee, fired out of a bedroom doorway. "I need to reload," he yelled. "Lay down some fire."

Joe rolled back into the bedroom. Frank sighted his rifle and fired, three round bursts carefully aimed. Time to make every shot count.

Luka and Wade made a move toward the kitchen island. Frank pushed them back with a barrage of bullets. Luka and Wade hurtled obscenities and death threats at Frank.

"You're going to die, muthereffer!"

Frank issued a few expletive laced comments of his own. Luka and Wade responded with aggressive, disciplined return fire. Bullets zipped past Frank's ear and embedded in the doorframe behind him. He grabbed for the floor.

_Damn, that was close_.

Luka and Wade laughed. Frank's temper unraveled.

Joe reappeared in the bedroom doorway. "Frank, you hit?"

Frank cursed and pushed himself up. "I'm fine," he growled. "These guys can shoot. They're damn accurate."

As if to prove the point, bullets peppered the walls lining the staircase. A deep furrow formed as the bullets worked their way to their targets. Frank and Joe dove into bedrooms.

Burkhart's voice came over the Bluetooths. "Hey, Hardy. ETA in ten minutes. What's the situation?"

"What's the situation?" Frank yelled. "What's it sound like? We're in a goddamn firefight. We could use a little help here."

Frank watched Joe stick his rifle out of the doorway and unleash a withering burst of bullets. Luka and Wade melted back into the mudroom.

"You started the party without me?" Burkhart said unflustered. "Okay, we're going to sirens. We'll be there in five. Hang tight."

_Hang tight?!_

Frank looked at Joe across the hall.

Joe grinned and voiced Frank's same thoughts, "Damn Marines. They're always late."

"You got that right." Frank smiled in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. Joe's humor and calm galvanized Frank, gave him the shot of adrenaline he needed. "Let's keep these guys pinned down until Burkhart gets here."

"Gladly. You take the guy on the right. I got the guy on the left."

* * *

><p>Luka and Wade wanted, needed, to get to the kitchen island. It offered a direct line of sight to the brothers. They made a plan.<p>

Luka poked his AK around the corner and shouted, "Go! Go! Go!"

Wade scrambled to the island while Luka lay down a hellacious field of covering fire. Wade almost made it.

Joe ripped through a three round blast. A bullet clipped Wade in the leg shattering his shin bone. He rolled behind the island, a trail of blood followed in his wake.

"I'm hit," he called to Luka.

Luka poked his head around the corner and Frank fired. Bullets tore up the wall an inch from Luka's head. He ducked back into the mudroom.

Frank never wavered. He stayed focused on his target. Joe kept watch over Wade.

Blood pumped out of Wade's leg. "I need a tourniquet, man," he yelled at Luka. "I'm bleeding. I'm losing a lot of blood, man."

Luka poked his head around the corner again. Again, Frank hit his mark. Bullets shredded the wall next to Luka's head. Plaster and drywall pinwheeled through the air.

Frank yelled, "You want to help your partner? Lay down your weapon and come out with your hands up."

No response.

Wade moaned and cursed behind the island.

Frank tried harder. "Your partner's in trouble. He could bleed out. He needs medical attention. Best thing for him is for you to give up."

The battle had turned and Luka knew it. Wade had become a liability. Luka turned and bolted out the porch door. Sirens wailed in the distance. A chill ran down his spine.

Nancy spotted Luka and radioed Frank. "One man just exited the house. Looks like he's going to make a break for it. What do you want me to do?"

"Leave him alone. He's dangerous," Frank said. "Burkhart and his team should be here any minute. We'll let them handle things."

"I hear sirens," Nancy said. "Hey, our runner's headed for the cornfield, not his car. I could follow him."

"No." Frank was adamant. "Meet Burkhart when he gets here. Bring him up to speed on the runner."

"Will do." Nancy watched cornstalks bend and sway as Luka plowed through them and made good his escape.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Eleven P.M. Nancy stood on the small balcony overlooking the alley behind the office. The air was cool and crisp.

So much had happened tonight. Nancy needed a little space, a little time to come to grips with it all. The night's events had intensified her emotions and her senses. She breathed in and tasted the grim and grit of the city. The chilly air caressed her skin.

Burkhart's men were still tracking Luka.

Micah and Adams were in custody. Frank had made arrangements with Burkhart to sit in on their interrogations tomorrow morning. Wade was undergoing emergency surgery for his leg. He and Luka were both charged with the murders of two men at the house.

Burkhart had reported Bee's death as the result of a gunfight that broke out between law enforcement officers and illegal gun dealers. Burkhart told his superiors he'd gotten a hot tip tonight that led him to the farmhouse. He and his team took full credit for the rescue of Tasha Romanoff, the capture of several high level gun dealers, and the confiscation of hundreds of illegal guns and ammo. Burkhart and his men were sitting pretty.

Nancy, Frank, and Joe were happy to fade into the background. With Burkhart and his team taking all the credit, Joe faced no consequences for Bee's death or Wade's leg. That suited the Endeavor team just fine. The less attention they received, the better.

Frank came through the sliding glass door with two bottles of beer. He handed one to Nancy.

She took a sip and leaned against the railing. "Helluva night, Frank."

"You got that right." The gunfight with Luka and Wade instantly came to mind. Definitely not something he wanted to repeat anytime soon. A chug of beer washed away the memory. He blew out a breath and rested his forearms on the railing. He checked the alley below, checked on his SUV, too. Old habit.

"Truthfully, Frank," Nancy said, "I'm glad tonight's over. Tasha's safe and in the hospital. Yuri's by her side and we're all in one piece. I'd say, mission accomplished. Toast?"

"Agreed." Frank brought his bottle up and touched it lightly to Nancy's. The soft clink sounded loud in the still night. Frank took a drink, swallowed, and said, "Yeah, we're all in one piece, but this isn't over. Mr. X and Marcus are still out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Not to mention, Luka."

"Don't remind me." Nancy looked out over the dark alley. Luka's voice came back to her _Come on out, love. I won't hurt you_. Goosebumps formed on her arms. "Let's not talk about the case anymore. I don't even want to think about it tonight."

"Okay by me." Frank was half-way through his beer. The alcohol was starting to kick in and mellow him out. He felt himself relax, felt his body coming down from the night's adrenaline charged high.

Frank and Nancy sipped in silence as the night slipped around them like a shield. It sheltered them from the outside world, a world that had intruded all too violently of late.

Nancy cast her head back and gazed at the starry sky. Her mind reached out to the vast unknown. There were more stars than she could ever count. She marveled at the enormity of the universe, the size and wonder of it. Humans were mere specks compared to stars. Stars were magnificent roiling spheres of gases. They burned bright and hot for billions of years.

Human life was short, over in the blink of an eye. Humans didn't have a second to waste. Nancy sipped her beer and thought about that. For months, she and Frank had side-stepped their feelings. They were taking things slow and easy. At least that's what they told themselves. Neither being brave enough to take a chance, to push the relationship forward. Each afraid they'd say or do something stupid, something they'd regret.

_To hell with slow and easy_.

Nancy set her beer bottle on a tiny wrought iron table shoved in the corner of the balcony. She walked to Frank and slipped an arm through his. He smelled of gunpowder, beer, and sweat. She snuggled closer, leaned her head on his shoulder.

Frank wondered at Nancy's sudden embrace. "Everything okay, Nan?"

She laid a palm on his chest and looked up. "No. No it's not." No more wasted seconds. Seconds were too precious. "There's something I have to tell you."

Frank's chest tightened. "Yeah?"

"I .. I love you."

Frank relaxed. She couldn't have picked three better words to say. The words he needed to hear. The words he'd longed to hear.

A cool breeze lifted her hair off her shoulder and tossed a strand across her chin. He reached up and smoothed the strand back into place. Golden light streamed through the sliding glass doors and illuminated her face. He looked into her eyes. They reminded him of the ocean at midnight – deep, dark, and mysterious. A man could drown in those eyes, fall right in and never come up.

He took a breath and let it out slowly. "I .. I love you, too. I've been afraid to tell you. I wasn't sure …"

She ran a hand down the side of his face and over the cut on his cheek. Her lips parted in a smile. "God, we've been such fools." She took his beer and set it on the table. She slid her arms around his waist and pulled him close.

He liked where this was going. She rose on her toes and kissed him. Her lips were soft and tasted of beer. He put a hand on the back of her head and leaned in deepening the kiss. Her body melted into his and time ceased to exist. The world shrunk around them. Nothing else mattered except this moment. This place. This moment in time.

She was all he could feel. She was everything he wanted. He explored her lips, tasted her mouth, tongue, and neck.

How many nights had he imagined her in his bed, her arms wrapped around him?

Too many.

He broke the kiss and drew in a ragged breath. He was hot and sticky and aroused. If he'd ever been more aroused, he couldn't remember when. He slid a hand down her back and over the swell of her hips. He wanted her. Wanted her badly. They'd danced around this issue for months. Should they, or shouldn't they?

It was time to make a move.

He leaned forward and his warm breath caressed her cheek. He whispered in her ear, "Nan, take a shower with me."

She ran a hand over his shoulder, but didn't say a word. She didn't have to, her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He took her by the hand and led her to the bathroom.

He got the water running then turned to her, pulled his t-shirt off, and tossed it on the floor. "Your turn," he said with a smile.

He was built like a rock – solid, hard, and indisputably male.

Her shirt and his pants soon dropped to the floor. She had her jeans halfway off when he ducked behind the shower curtain to check the water temperature.

"The water's per …" his voice trailed off. Her pants and bra were gone. Only a skimpy little thong remained. It was a nice little thing. White. Lacy. And sexy.

Very sexy.

His eyes glittered as they traveled openly down her body.

She smiled and tugged on his boxers. "Your turn."

He just stood there drinking in the sight of her. Small firm breasts, smooth skin, and curves in all the right places.

When he didn't move she said, "Guess I'll have to go again."

She slipped her fingers under the top of the thong and slid it down, slowly, over her hips, and over her thighs. He was frozen in place, hardly breathing.

The thong dropped to the floor. She stepped out of it. First one foot, then the other. She had fantastic legs, long and shapely. She kicked the thong aside and flashed him a grin then stepped into the shower giving him a brief, but spectacular view of her backside.

Eyes closed, she ducked under the spray. The warm water washed over her, chased away the night's tension and fear.

The plastic shower curtain crinkled as Frank stepped in behind her.

"The water's great," she said, eyes still closed.

Frank didn't answer. Just got close and pressed his chest against her back. She was warm and wet in his arms. He clasped her waist and his lips touched her shoulder. He felt her tremble a little. The spray beat against his head as he trailed kisses along her shoulder. He got to the spot where the shoulder meets the neck and nibbled. Her soft moans anchored him there. He played his tongue over her neck eliciting more soft moans. She reached a hand up, grabbed his neck and squeezed. Nails bit into his skin. Pain and pleasure all in one.

His hands traveled freely over her body. And she liked it. He was doing everything right. Each tender kiss, each intimate touch was heaven on earth, sinfully erotic. His body was pressed tight against her and she loved it – never wanted him to part from her. He was all hard muscle, every inch of him, and every part of her wanted him.

Her skin tingled where he'd touched her, and he'd touched her everywhere. She didn't want him to stop, never, but he deserved a little pleasure for all he was giving.

She gently pushed his hands away and turned to face him. Her hands traced the muscles of his stomach and chest. It was a nice chest, broad and muscled, with a fine dusting of dark hair.

She leaned in and kissed his chest. A jolt of sexual heat nearly felled him. He braced himself against the tile wall. Icy cold on his back, hot as hell on his chest.

Her lips moved to his collarbone. Teeth and tongue gently worked their way up his neck. He moaned and buried a hand in her damp hair. She slid her palms over his shoulders and around to the nape of his neck. She felt his heart pound against her breast. His breath was hot and heavy on her face.

She nuzzled his nose with hers. Danced her lips lightly over his then whispered, "Frank ..I .. I .."

Words failed her. Tonight she wanted him, needed him. How could she tell him? She had to show him. A kiss on the lips, said all the things she couldn't.

_I love you. I want you. No fear. No restraint._

The kiss electrified Frank. Desire burned through his body. He was alive with it, hyper-stimulated and raw-edged. He kissed her back, matched her passion for passion, need for need. He couldn't think beyond her. She was all that mattered.

He pushed her wet hair off her face and kissed her harder.

_No fear. No restraint._

* * *

><p>Frank awoke with a start. He checked his bedside clock. Four A.M. Nancy was curled beside him sleeping peacefully. Her long hair fanned across the pillow, the covers crumpled around her. She needed her rest. It had been quite a night. He smiled at the memory as he listened to her soft steady breathing.<p>

It had all started with three little words. _I love you_. Then came the shower. He'd gotten out of his boxers in record time and climbed in behind her. Talk about sensory overload. The warm water .. her wet skin .. those luscious curves ..

His hands had been all over her. Everywhere. And she hadn't minded, hadn't pushed him away, or stopped him. Her lips had been all over him and he sure as hell hadn't minded. They couldn't get enough of each other.

Then she'd kissed him .. a heart-stopping kiss .. a kiss that left no doubt as to how she felt or what she wanted.

The shower hadn't lasted long after that. The fear of slipping – or more accurately – the desire to get horizontal had forced them to the bedroom.

He kissed her bare shoulder. She stirred but didn't wake. He slipped out of bed and tugged on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Light-footed, he headed for the kitchen in search of water.

Glass in hand, he went to the balcony and checked the alley. No strange cars. Since the night of Tasha's kidnapping he'd made a point of learning each and every car that parked in the alley. He finished the water and grabbed the empty beer bottles off the wrought iron table.

He left the bottles and glass on the kitchen counter. He crossed the living room headed for the bedroom. A red dot zig-zagged through the room. He hit the floor fast. A red beam passed over him.

Terror washed over Frank. Someone had a bead on the apartment. Someone with a red dot scope. Attached to a sniper rifle?

He needed to find the threat. Eliminate it if possible.

He crawled to the sliding glass doors on elbows and thighs. No curtains on the doors. He hadn't had the time, money, or inclination to buy any. Tomorrow there would be curtains on these doors. Cautiously, he peeked out and scanned the alley. He searched for a shape, the shape of a human with a rifle.

Frank found him, a dark shape with a baseball cap hunched between two cars, rifle pointed at the balcony. Frank pushed back from the glass doors and crawled to a desk on the far side of the room. Out of sight of the scope, he stood and retrieved his gun from the desk. He shoved his feet into tennis shoes and hurried down the stairs. Quietly, he unlocked the back door, pushed it open, and squeezed out. He took cover behind his SUV.

The temperature was a chilly forty-five degrees. Frank's t-shirt did nothing to warm him. The only illumination came from low-watt exterior bulbs scattered along the alley. They set the mood, creating lonely globes of light.

Crouching, Frank moved to the end of his vehicle.

Frank's eyes darted left and right searching for the gunman.

He was gone.

Where?

Frank stepped forward, not thinking, not looking. The soft crunch of gravel gave him away. The sound incredibly loud in the calm night. Frank mentally swore at himself.

_Where is this guy?_

A loud crash to Frank's right answered his question. The gunman had knocked over a trashcan.

The chase was on. The gunman dashed out of the alley and fled left. Frank raced after him. Frank got to the end of the alley and brought his gun up, got into a two handed firing stance. Buildings and cars lined the street. A couple of trees and a few shrubs dotted the sidewalk. A myriad of places to hide.

The gunman could be anywhere.

The cautious part of Frank's brain asserted itself. Retreat is sometimes the best option. Frank eased back into the alley and returned to the office.

Concealed in a dark doorway, the man with the rifle listened and waited wondering if the man from the alley would follow him.

The man with the rifle chastised himself. Tonight, he'd taken things for granted, hadn't planned for an encounter. Mistakes were fine if you learned from them. The man with the rifle had indeed learned. He would not make the same mistake again. In the future he would be more careful.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I don't know if anyone will notice, but I put two chapters together and removed one. I edited and rewrote, a little of this chapter. Nothing changed as far as the story is concerned. I just didn't feel the writing was the good enough. I'm still not thrilled with the final product, but I'm leaving it along for now._

_As always, thanks for the reviews. It's nice to hear some of you are learning stuff, too. Reading can be fun and educational. :)_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Well, here it is , for better or worse. Very sorry this took so long. I can't promise rapid updates in the forseeable future. Wish I could. Thanks so much to those who have favorited or alerted this story, and left reviews. Your support and encouragement is greatly appreciated. It keeps me writing. Happy reading. _

_P.S. It has come to my attention that people can't post a review or are having trouble posting a review for this chapter. I think this is because I deleted the original chapter 25 and merged it with Chapter 24. I did that a while back. I never thought it would create problems. Live and learn. If you are so inclined to leave a review, you may have to do it as a guest or you can PM me. I hope I don't have this problem when I post Chapter 26. :(_

* * *

><p>Chapter 25<p>

A persistent buzz echoed in Mr. X's head, invaded his sleep, and woke him.

He lifted his head off the sofa. Not an easy feat. Too much alcohol. His head felt heavy and unwieldy.

_Buzzzzzzzz_ …

"Shut the hell up!" Mr. X yelled. Not a good idea. Yelling set his head to throbbing.

Where the hell was his cell phone?

Mr. X flung an arm over the side of the sofa and groped the floor. There, there vibrating on the plush carpet. His hand curled around it.

It better not be that fool Luka again. Luka had called around ten P.M. blathering on about those effing PIs.

"They wounded Wade," Luka had said as if this was a great offense.

Mr. X didn't give a damn about Wade and had screamed, "What about the princess? Where is Tasha?"

"Who the eff knows!" Luka had screamed back.

Mr. X couldn't remember what was said after that. Everything was a watery blur. The drinking had started shortly after the call and only stopped when he ran out of liquor.

Mr. X was a dead man and knew it. He had not produced the package. That god-forsaken package. The one thing Marcus required of him. The one thing Mr. X could not produce, could not obtain..

Marcus would not allow this failure to go unpunished.

The buzzing stopped.

Thank God.

Mr. X roused himself to a semi-stable sitting position. The cell phone glinted in his hand.

_Buzzzzzzzz_ …

Mr. X flinched as if he'd been shot. If only he could reach through the phone and strangle the caller.

Wait, what if it was Marcus? A missed call would be another transgression and Mr. X could not afford anymore transgressions.

Russian curses tumbled through his head. Russian came easier in his alcoholic stupor. He pressed the _talk_ button and _then_ registered the caller ID. Boris' cell phone.

"Good, you're awake."

"You woke me, you effing punk," Mr. X yelled. God, how his head hurt and Frank Hardy was the last person he wanted to hear from. Frank Hardy was the reason for his failures, for his current predicament.

"Time for a status report," Frank said. "Team X; three dead. Two in the hospital. Three in custody and one escaped. On the other hand, Team Hardy; all home safe and sound."

"Go to hell!" Mr. X roared. "You are not safe. You will pay for all the grief you have caused me."

Mr. X's bloodshot eyes jumped around the room, tried to focus on something – anything – anything that wasn't swaying. But everything swayed.

He was going to be sick.

"Now you listen to me, you Russian piece of scum. You're the one who's not safe. You think you can come after me or my partners? You are sorely mistaken. Now, listen, and listen good – watch your back. I'm coming after you next."

The phone went dead. Mr. X was left alone in the silence of his apartment. He leaned over and heaved.

* * *

><p>Frank sipped a cup of coffee and watched the Sunday morning news. A police bust of an illegal gun operation and the deaths of three of its members was breaking news.<p>

First thing that morning, Frank had told Nancy and Joe about the gunman in the alley. Joe had been unfazed. Nancy had not taken the news as well. She had shaken her head in despair, dismay, or perhaps fear. Frank wasn't sure which.

"I need to rest, Frank," she'd finally said. "You're welcome to stay at my place. You and Joe both. It's not stay here."

"We'll be fine." Frank patted the gun holstered on his belt. "Someone has to stay and guard the office."

Nancy fidgeted with the backpack at her feet. "I can come back .. this evening. We'll keep watch together."

He lifted her backpack off the floor and handed it to her. "No. Go home. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

She lingered a moment, searched his face, then said, "Tomorrow then."

He had pulled her into a long kiss before she left. The warmth of her hands on his neck and the taste of her lips still lingered.

* * *

><p>Joe had spent the early morning hours talking to Vanessa via their cell phones. Lunch was offered and he accepted. At twelve sharp, he rapped on her door, the door of her Aunt and Uncle's apartment.<p>

Vanessa greeted Joe. She had a glass of iced tea in one hand and a smile on her face. He was tired, very tired, but she looked oh-so nice. And that smile, it had a bit of sass to it .. some sexiness. It was a smile that made you want to wrap your arms around her, hold her tight, breathe in her scent and take her some place safe and warm, some place cozy … like a bed.

She wore a sleeveless shirt, jeans, and no shoes. She ushered him in.

Joe inhaled. "Smells delicious."

"It's pot roast. Want some ice tea?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Vanessa headed to the kitchen. Joe followed. His eyes never left her hips. The sway, the fluid movement. Her, those hips, a bed.

"Where's your Aunt and Uncle," he asked.

"Joliet. They have a house there. They won't be back until tomorrow morning."

Well, that explained why he never saw Muriel and Henry Boggs on the weekends and it opened up some interesting possibilities for after lunch.

The meal was delicious. Vanessa was a fabulous cook and Joe had been famished. Once the dishes were cleared away, tea was exchanged for wine.

They sat on the sofa in the small living room. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Over lunch, they'd discussed safe topics; their childhoods, New York, all the wild and crazy things they had done in high school, and their favorite seasons. Hers was fall, his was winter and summer. He couldn't narrow it down to just one.

Now what to talk about?

"So," Vanessa said breaking the silence, "ever been married?"

He almost choked on his wine. "What? Um, no."

"Ever had a long term relationship? I mean, like two or three years."

He thought of Iola. That was a long time ago – nine years – did it count? The relationship had lasted two years. "No," he finally said. Where were these questions headed?

Vanessa noticed the change, the slight slackening of his jaw, the slump of his shoulders.

"There was someone," she said softly. "Did she hurt you?"

His feelings came at him fast – anger and heartache tumbled over each other, fear and hate came right behind burning a hole in his gut. Guilt and remorse played hide-and-seek with his brain.

"Is there something you want to ask?" His voice was cold, bitter.

Vanessa backed off. "I .. I was just trying to see what kind of man you are. Short-term relationships or long-term."

Joe stared at his wine. What to say? Tell her everything, or nothing? He decided on somewhere in the middle. "There was someone .. a long time ago. But .. I .. well, I don't want to talk about it .. about her."

Vanessa swallowed hard. "Sorry. I .. I didn't mean to pry."

Joe turned the question back on her. "What about you? Short-term relationships or long-term?"

She bit her bottom lip, looked away, then back at him. "Long-term. I was married."

Joe tried to hide his shock and surprise. He was pretty sure he failed. "M .. married?"

"Yeah. Two years. I .. I married for all the wrong reasons." She sounded apologetic, ashamed.

"Yeah? What were those reasons?"

She took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Young girl desperate to leave home because mom has a new live-in boyfriend."

"That's it?"

"No. I met an up and coming police officer. He was a couple of years older than me. He had everything I was looking for in a man. He was nice looking, had a career and lots of ambition. He was stable .. safe .. dependable. At least .. at first."

A deep frown sent lines across Joe's forehead. "At first? What happened?"

Vanessa lowered her head and stared at her hands. "Let's just say, I found out I didn't know him as well as I thought."

"I sense there's a lot more to the story," Joe said.

"Yeah, there is. But like you, I don't want to talk about it." Her head came up fast. She flipped her hair over her shoulders. "Sorry, that came out harsher than I meant."

"It's okay. I understand." Joe lightly rubbed his hands together. "I think our pasts should stay in the past, for now."

"Yes. Me, too." She looked at him, wary. "I wanted to be honest with you .. about my situation. I didn't want any surprises later."

Joe met her intense gaze. "I appreciate that."

The conversation drifted back to safer topics and ended in another glass of wine. They wound up in the kitchen next to the refrigerator. Dessert had been offered and turned down. Joe wanted dessert, a different kind.

He wanted to taste her lips again. The other night had been nothing, barely a kiss. It didn't count. He wanted a real kiss, one that stood your hair on end and lit a fire in your heart.

Only one question, was he going to make a move?

Yes. Oh, hell yes.

He backed her up against the refrigerator and leaned in. His lips hovered over hers, less than an inch away. She could avoid the kiss or push him away. She did neither and his lips lightly touched hers.

God, she tasted good. Like a fine summer wine.

Her scent circled round him, feminine and soft. A fire started in his heart and spread through his body.

His emotions spiked and the kiss turned red hot.

He was coming on strong and Vanessa welcomed his advances. Her body was in-sync with his, her desire for intimacy as great as his.

He threaded one hand into her hair, wrapped the other around her waist, and crushed her to him. Pressed those wonderful curves tight against him.

His mouth moved against hers with a hunger and urgency she had never tasted before. She felt his need, powerful and consuming. A need so great it frightened her. She wondered if he'd ever be able to fill it.

He sensed the change in her – the fear – and the kiss lost its intensity.

He released her, backed away. "I'm sorry. I .. I didn't mean .. I can't do this," he stammered.

He left her standing there, weak at the knees and all revved up. She sank against the refrigerator and stared at him. What had happened? What had changed his mind?

She reached for him, but he was already on his way to the front door.

She followed him. "Joe. What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm tired." His hand rested on the doorknob. "It's .. it's the case. I've got a million things on my mind." The lie came easily surprising even him. "I'm sorry, I need to get back to the office."

Doubt showed in her eyes, but she accepted his excuse. "Okay. Call me later?"

"Yeah, of course." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Lunch was delicious. I'm sorry I wasn't better company."

She didn't get a chance to reply. He was out the door and gone. Through the window she watched him trudge down the steps.

She leaned against the door. Tears glistened in her eyes. She hadn't told him everything. It was too soon. Their relationship too new.

Eventually, she thought and hugged herself.

* * *

><p>Joe wandered the streets. He hadn't been ready to face the office. He needed time to think, to put his thoughts in order.<p>

Vanessa had demons in her past. Well, he had demons, too. Bigger ones.

He had killed a man last night. It wasn't his first kill and it wouldn't be his last.

How could he ever explain that to Vanessa?

His mind took him to the past, to nine years ago and the day a car bomb had killed, not only a young woman, but a boy on the verge of manhood. The man Joe would have become, died that day. Ceased to exist. Forever changed.

All his hopes and dreams were extinguished in an instant. His first love was gone in the blink of an eye.

After that, his life had spiraled out of control. Broken and scarred, he'd lived one day to the next lacking purpose and direction. It took two years to pull himself out of the abyss, out of the empty shell of his life.

He decided his life needed meaning. A direction. He needed a reason to live. If his life had a purpose then Iola's death would not be in vain.

Her death would make him a better man.

Slowly, he put the pieces of his life back together. Admittedly, not all the pieces came together smoothly or in a cohesive whole. But that didn't stop him, he had battles to fight and wars to win. Nothing stood in his way. The Army trained him, taught him how to fight, and how to kill. They gave him the practice and experience to hone his skills.

The bad guys didn't get second chances around him. Whenever his conscience called for restraint, he ignored it.

Had the men who planted a bomb in his car considered the possibility of killing an innocent girl?

Had they used restraint? Shown remorse?

No, and Joe wouldn't either.

He leaned against a lamppost and scanned the sky. Sunbeams played peek-a-boo with gray clouds gathering in the east. A spring storm was building.

He felt a storm building in the pit of his stomach. A cold fear gripped his heart.

Would Vanessa be able to understand him? Would she accept him for who he was? For the man he had become.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

He'd risen to the top in an organization full of thieves and killers. He lived in a huge brick house in one of the richest neighborhoods. His wife was a pretty young thing that looked good in a bikini and satisfied his needs in bed. Even better, she knew her place and stayed in it. She wisely ignored his business dealings. Never asked questions and never showed the slightest interest.

Marcus had an upfront business – a liquor distributorship. Behind the scenes he ran a shadow business importing and exporting drugs and guns. They came in on the same ships as the liquor.

More than fifteen years ago, Marcus had come to America to ply the drug trade. The Russians were getting into things pretty heavy then and Marcus made his presence known. His background in vineyards and wines made him a rare commodity, a diamond among the rough. Marcus had seen an opportunity to make some big money – some really _big_ money and took it.

He had immersed himself in the drug world, learned who was who, then used his influence and power to destroy the competition. Local drug lords started turning up dead. Others were left wishing they were dead. Rival gangs soon learned the long reach of Marcus and his men. Mess with him and suffer the consequences. Tow the line, and you might live.

The western section of the greater Chicago area and its drug pipeline now operated under the strict control of Marcus.

Marcus sat in his office, a large soundproof room, located at the back of his house on the ground floor. Marcus looked at the photo again. Frank Hardy was unremarkable. No distinguishing features. No interesting scars or tattoos.

Marcus scanned the file again. Again, Frank Hardy was unremarkable. No distinguishing arrests made while serving in the Army's CID. No interesting cases while working for his father's detective agency.

Yet, Frank Hardy was a problem. He had managed to wreak havoc on a small section of Marcus' organization. He'd taken down several of Marcus' best men in less than 24 hours. Marcus admired that. Hardy had proven himself an able adversary and that inspired Marcus' interest.

Yes, Marcus thought, Hardy appeared to be a man of hidden talents.

A knock sounded at the office door. Deangelo, Marcus' bodyguard, answered the door, checked the two visitors, and allowed them in.

One was 'pretty-boy' Shell, blond and green eyed with a cunning smile. Deangelo sneered. One day he was going to wipe that smug smile off of Shell's face.

Shell's gaze wandered to the window. Marcus' wife and two of her friends lounged by the pool sipping drinks. Tanned and bikini clad – two blondes and a brunette. The perfect trio, living the perfect life. All paid for by Marcus' drug money.

Shell had made a play for the brunette months ago. Nothing came of it. A few dates, one night in bed, and then he never saw her again. She was looking for a free ride. He was looking for sex. Only one of them got what they were looking for and Shell was pretty sure it wasn't the brunette. Still, she'd been fun.

Shell turned his smile on Deangelo. "How's it going?"

"Fuck you."

Shell laughed and Deangelo retreated to the door to stand guard.

"Gentlemen," Marcus said, "what information do you have for me?"

Heinz, Shell's partner, said, "The target has been acquired. We'll attempt a takedown this afternoon."

Marcus leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Excellent. Bring him directly to me." Marcus' eyes swept from Heinz to Shell and back. His voice was cold and dangerous, "He gives you any trouble, let him know, the only part of him that needs to work is his mouth."

Heinz grinned like a hyena. "Yessir."

Later, Frank would say buying curtains was the dumbest decision of his life. He'd wanted curtains on those sliding glass doors to the balcony. He'd wanted privacy.

He hadn't thought about the office being vacant. He hadn't thought about the possibility of a setup.

Later, Frank would say he'd made it easy for them. He had walked straight into the trap.

The men watched Frank leave. Ten minutes later they parked their car in the alley behind the Endeavor. The car doors opened and two men in neat, blue suits climbed out. Heinz kept watch while Shell picked the lock on the Endeavor's back door. They entered the office, locked the door, and waited.

An hour later, Frank unlocked the door and stepped inside. The barrel of a handgun met his temple. The gun was no empty threat. The man holding the gun knew it. And Frank knew it.

"Get inside and close the door."

Frank stepped forward then pushed the door shut with his heel. The gun never left Frank's temple.

Another man emerged from the shadows – tall, muscular, and good looking. Frank caught a flash of green. Intense green eyes. Shell who also had a handgun.

Frank figured, if they wanted him dead, he'd be dead. They could have shot him the minute he walked through the door. They wanted him alive and that changed the game. If given the opportunity, Frank would fight.

Leaving alive did not guarantee returning alive.

Both men were confident and comfortable in their roles. They acted in unison, as if they'd done this before.

Heinz grabbed Frank's shopping bag and tossed it aside. The curtain packages slid across the floor. A bottle of shampoo rolled into the wall.

Shell motioned with his gun. "Hands on your head, laced together."

Frank slowly lifted his hands and placed them on his head. Not laced. Shell didn't notice. Sloppy, Frank thought.

"On your knees."

The hardwood floor bit into Frank's knees. Shell bent and reached for Frank's left arm. Frank whipped his right arm around and his fist collided with Shell's cheek. It wasn't the best punch Frank had ever thrown, but it dazed Shell. Frank followed with an elbow to Shell's ribs.

Shell went down on his knees. He wasn't a fighter. He preferred to let his gun do the talking.

Heinz aimed a kick at Frank's head. Not much effort or force in it. The kick was an afterthought, a spur of the moment choice. Frank saw the kick coming, grabbed Heinz by the ankle and pulled. Heinz crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.

Frank started to get up, to get to his feet. Shell's gun stopped him. It was leveled at his head again.

_Damn, the guy was quick_.

"Let's try this again," Shell said. "On your fucking knees. This time, you try anything stupid, you'll pay. Marcus wants you alive, but it don't mean all your parts have to be working. Get my drift, asshole?" Shell's voice cut like a chain saw.

Frank got on his knees. He preferred working parts. Greater chance of escape.

Shell grabbed Frank's arms and pulled them behind his back. Frank felt cold steel wrap around his wrists. He was hauled to his feet. Heinz placed a hood over Frank's head and cinched it tight around his neck.

Panic set in. Frank fought for air. _Too tight! Can't breathe. Can't breathe!_

Frank twitched and shook his head.

The butt of a gun came down hard between his shoulder blades. "Quit messing around," Shell said.

Frank gasped, sucked in air, got a mouthful of fabric and panicked again.

_Get a grip. For god's sake, get a grip_.

"Time to move," Heinz said and grabbed Frank by the upper arm.

He guided Frank through the back door. Frank heard a car door open and felt a hand on his head, pushing him down, and in to the car. He collapsed on a soft, cushy seat. He twisted and wiggled and got himself seated. Plenty of leg room. Probably a Town Car.

Frank sagged against the seat and took several shallow breaths. It was dark and stuffy in the hood. Hard to breathe. It took all of his willpower to stay calm, focused. He concentrated on the drive, how long it took.

By Frank's estimation they drove for thirty minutes. The first half of the ride was city driving, lot of stops and starts. The last half was highway driving, long and smooth with no turns.

Now they were back to stops and starts with lots of sharp turns. The car came to a stop then rolled forward. Frank heard a metal clanking sound in front of the car. He guessed it was a gate. The clanking stopped and the car rolled forward. A long slow curve to the right and then the car stopped. The driver killed the engine.

Sweat ran down Frank's forehead. It flowed along his eyebrows and ran into his eyes. Thin streams of sweat flowed slowly past his ears and down his neck. His was drenched. His damp t-shirt stuck to him.

Where the hell was he?

Marcus.

He'd wanted to find Marcus.

Well, Marcus had found him first.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Okay, here's the deal, I can post _shorter_ chapters faster. It may break up the action a little, but I think it beats the long wait for a longer chapter. And in a strange way, I think this makes the action more intense. Of course, that may just be my imagination._

_Also, triple thanks for the reviews. I appreciate that you're still reading and (hopefully) enjoying. Final note; this hasn't been proofread to the nth degree, so I apologize in advance for any typos. (Find one, point it out, and I'll correct it.) Thanks!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 27<p>

Nancy went home, showered, and changed into fresh clothes. She told Hannah, the housekeeper, she was leaving and didn't know when she'd be back.

Hannah followed Nancy to the door. "I saw the news report this morning. Your father did, too."

Nancy adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. She'd repacked it with fresh clothes. "I can't talk about the case. Tell dad I'm sorry I missed him."

Mr. Drew was having brunch with friends.

Nancy wished there was more she could say, something that would relieve the older woman's worries. Hannah was like a surrogate aunt to Nancy. But this case was dangerous. Hannah and her father didn't need to know how dangerous. Her father probably knew though. Brunch with friends was likely a diversion, a way to keep his mind off Nancy and the case.

She gave Hannah a quick hug and left.

* * *

><p>Nancy arrived at the hospital around noon. A stop at the reception desk, and flash of her PI Badge, granted her Tasha's room number.<p>

Dimitri met Nancy in the hall outside Tasha's room. Dimitri looked like he hadn't slept in days. He shook hands with Nancy and embraced her in a one armed hug. He was grateful, he said, a million times over, to the Endeavor for finding his sister.

Unshed tears shone in his eyes.

"How is she?" Nancy asked.

Dimitri rubbed the corner of his eyes with the heels of his hands. Sniffed, then said, "Yuri's with her. He hasn't left her side since they brought her in."

Nancy noticed the police officer standing guard outside Tasha's room.

"I'd like to see her," Nancy said to Dimitri. "Just for a minute."

"I'm sure she'd like to see you, too. Please, come in." Dimitri pushed open the door.

The room was gloomy. The curtains were drawn. A lamp, over Tasha's bed, cast a pale yellow glow over the room.

The scene was tranquil. Serene. Calm and loving. Yuri sat beside the bed, one hand wrapped around Tasha's. He gently stroked her head with his other hand. The tenderness of his touch, the warmth in his eyes – drew Nancy forward. For such a large man, his touch was unbelievably light and delicate.

He loves her, Nancy realized.

Yuri smoothed Tasha's hair and spoke softly in her ear. "You have a visitor." His eyes shifted to Nancy and Tasha's gaze followed.

"I wanted to you see," Nancy murmured stepping toward the bed. "See how you're doing."

Tasha's eyes returned to Yuri. Her face was painfully swollen, discolored, a mass of bruises.

"It's difficult for her to talk," Yuri said.

Nancy nodded. "If there's anything I .. or the Endeavor .. can do, please, let us know."

Yuri's face darkened. "Find Marcus. Find the men responsible for this."

"You know we will. Only one man escaped last night, Luka Andreno. The police have an APB out for him. The other men are either dead or in custody."

Nancy saw Tasha took a breath and close her eyes. She nodded weakly, as if to say, _Good_.

Nancy lightly touched Tasha's arm. "We're still looking for Marcus. I promise you, we will find him."

A nurse entered the room. "Sorry folks. Need to see how our patient's doing. If everyone could please step outside for a minute?"

Yuri kissed Tasha's head and exited the room with Nancy. Dimitri met them in the hall, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Nancy looked at the guard next to Tasha's door. Detective Burkhart was doing things right, taking no chances. Between Yuri and the guard, Tasha was safe and sound.

Nancy lowered her voice and said, "Can I talk to you both.. privately?"

Dimitri waved everyone down the hall and into a private sitting room. The room was empty and quiet. Plush sofa and chairs. A big screen TV. No one bothered sitting.

"We had a visitor last night," Nancy said. "At the office. A man with a sniper rifle."

Dimitri frowned and looked at Yuri.

Yuri looked at Nancy. "How do you know it was a sniper rifle?"

"We're guessing about that part," Nancy said. "It had a red dot scope. That we're sure about. Frank tried to trail the guy, but he got away."

Dimitri spoke, directed the question at Yuri, "You think Marcus had something to do with this?"

"Very possible," Yuri said. He ran a hand down his unshaven face and sighed. "Tasha hasn't told us anything. It will be a couple of days before she can speak." He looked at Dimitri. "I believe she knows who Marcus is."

Dimitri's frown deepened. "What makes you say that?"

Yuri shrugged, became guarded. "A hunch. A theory Joseph Hardy and I discussed." He glanced at his watch. "I think we should get back to Tasha."

Dimitri nodded his acquiescence and held a hand out toward the door. He sipped his coffee as he watched Yuri leave.

Nancy laid a hand on Dimitri's arm. "We're going to find Marcus. I promise. We'll get to the bottom of this."

Nancy left the hospital, got in her car, and sat there. She thought about Yuri and his undying devotion to Tasha. The way he'd touched her, like she was a rare and delicate flower.

Nancy thought about Frank. Their relationship. They'd taken the next step and it felt right. Suddenly, she missed him, missed his touch. She remembered his hands – how they felt on her body – and she wanted him near. Wanted his arms around her.

* * *

><p>Frank stood in the middle of the room. It was big, twenty by twenty. White walls, white tile floor, bright lights, and no windows. Two men with guns flanked him. Well, this wasn't good.<p>

Shell said, "Take off your shoes and socks."

Frank lowered himself onto the floor and removed his shoes and socks.

Shell motioned for Frank to stand. The floor was cold beneath his feet.

"Clothes. Off," Shell said.

Frank frowned, tried to make a joke. "You're not bad looking and all, but I don't swing that way."

Shell forced a smile. "Very funny. Now, strip."

Frank saw no other option and stripped. Pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Undid his belt. Unzipped his pants. Damn, this felt wrong. Uncomfortable.

_The whole point_.

Pants were off. Only thing left – boxers. And the gun strapped to his right calf.

Heinz relieved him of the gun.

Frank's options were getting smaller and smaller.

Heinz removed the gun's magazine and pocketed it. He wrapped his hand around the gun .. and _swung_. He didn't appear to tense a muscle. Just _bam!_

The blow caught Frank flush on the side of the head. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

"That's for the stunt at the office," Heinz said. He slid the gun into the waistband at the small of his back. "Paybacks are a bitch."

Frank lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious, blood pooling around his face.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Joe finished his walk and trudged into the alley, head down watching his feet go through the motion of carrying him home. He was tired, emotionally drained. Lunch with Vanessa hadn't turned out the way he'd hoped. Not in the least. Their emotional exchange had left him disheartened.

She had been married. That had caught him by surprise. Thrown him for a loop. He hadn't hidden his surprise well.

Had he screwed things up with her? Pissed her off? Damaged any chance of a relationship?

Damn, he couldn't concentrate on Vanessa – her past – his past – any of it. Not at the moment anyway. He was way too spent, beyond exhausted. A cold beer and a long nap was all he could think about.

His head came up and he saw the back door of the office standing open.

Something was wrong with this picture.

He went on full alert. Adrenaline rushed through his body and supercharged his senses. His skin tingled. The fatigue was gone, forgotten, replaced by hyper-awareness.

He took cover behind a car and peered around the fender.

He saw the men. Saw one of them push a hooded and handcuffed Frank into the Town Car.

He watched the car exit the alley and turn right. He ran into the office. Got to his room and scooped his backpack off the floor where he'd tossed it the night before. Grabbed his rifle and ammo and was on his way out of the office. He snatched the keys for the Rent-a-Wreck truck off of Frank's desk and flew out the back door.

His gear landed on the front passenger's seat as he slid into the truck. He fired up the engine, heard it cough and choke and finally start. He cursed the vehicle and wheeled out of the parking slot with a shriek of tires and spray of loose gravel.

He hung a right out of the alley. The tires whined in protest. He searched the traffic, looked for the Town Car. Thought he saw it at the second light.

* * *

><p>Nancy wandered the liquor aisle of the grocery store checking the wine selection. She found a bottle of Pinot Grigio and picked it up. Read the label. <em>A crisp, refreshing wine with bright aromas. The perfect compliment with poultry, seafood, pasta, and pizza<em>.

That sealed the deal. Wine and pizza for dinner. Her treat. Just her and Frank. They'd guard the office together tonight.

She paid for the wine and headed to her car. As she opened the door her phone buzzed.

Joe, his voice strained, the words rapid-fire, "Nancy, they got Frank."

Her heart lurched and a chill zipped up her spine. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She grabbed the car door to steady herself and dropped the bottle of wine on the driver's seat.

Joe again. "I'm tailing them. I need your help. I can't stay on their tail forever, they'll make me. We need to take turns."

Yes, yes, she could do that. Deep breaths, deep breaths. She and Joe would get Frank back. All was not lost.

* * *

><p>Nancy tailed the Town Car when it got on the highway. Joe tracked it through the ritzy neighborhood. Mansions, country homes, and estates lined the road. Joe passed a wooded area then a long stone wall rose on the right. Some security conscious person or a drug dealer lives behind this wall, he thought.<p>

The car pulled up to a wrought iron gate embedded in the wall. The driver pressed a key pad and the gate slide open. Joe kept a safe distance behind and watched the Town Car drive through the gate and disappear from view. Seconds later, Joe, in the old truck, rumbled past the entrance. He caught a glimpse of a curved driveway and a manicured lawn.

He and Nancy met up at a nearby gas station. The old truck stood out like a black eye. It drew nervous glances from the well-dressed, well-heeled patrons. Joe told Nancy they couldn't stay long, they didn't need the attention. Nancy agreed. They regrouped at a diner several miles away. Joe threw his gear, and rifle, into the trunk of Nancy's car before they entered the diner.

They ordered coffee and sipped, subdued and anxious, neither tasting the dark brown liquid. Outside it started to rain, a light drizzle that hastened customers' steps. Customers entered the diner laughing, shaking off their damp clothes.

Nancy watched the scenes unfold. The laughter struck a wrong note. It seemed out of place. How could people laugh? Frank was gone. Taken.

Her eyes hunted Joe's. "Should we phone Detective Burkhart? Tell him about Frank? Maybe he can help."

Joe heard the tremor in Nancy's voice. He looked for signs of weakness. She was holding it together pretty well. No tears, no outward display of nerves. A little skittish perhaps, hyped and full of energy. That was good, Joe could work with that.

"No. No police." He set down his coffee and leaned forward. Held her in a steady gaze. Needed her to understand his reasoning. "More help would be nice, but Burkhart would have to play it by the book. Call in the FBI. Set up negotiations. All that takes time and time's the one thing we don't have."

He lowered his head, stared at his clenched fist, unclenched it and wiggled his fingers. "No, we're not playing this by the book. Police intervention would most likely get Frank killed."

"They took him alive," Nancy said, rational, logical. "They want him alive."

Joe shook his head woefully. "You and I both know he's expendable. As long as they can use him, he lives. The minute they get what they want, he's dead."

Joe pushed his cup to the edge of the table. "No matter how we play this, it's risky."

Nancy sat silent for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. "You're right. I trust your instincts, Joe. We'll play this however you say. I just want Frank back .. in one piece."

"So do I." Joe reached over and squeezed Nancy's hand. "We'll get him back."

They made a plan and went over it twice. It was a bare-bones outline. No time for details. The basic idea was to get in, find Frank, and get him out.

They paid for the coffee and left. Ran through the fat raindrops pelting the pavement and jumped in Nancy's car. The truck was left behind. They would come back for it later.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yup, this was a short chapter. My husband gave me quite a scare and we wound up in the ER. The hubby is fine now, but he needs some extra attention and care from me. He's worth it so I don't mind. The next chapter will be longer and I'll get it posted as soon as possible._

_Thanks for the reviews. They're always a good incentive to post faster._


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Frank gradually drifted into consciousness. Noticed his head drooping to the side and tried to move it. Winced at the pain and decided not to move. His head could just droop.

He was in a chair and wore only his boxers. His hands were pulled tight behind the back of the chair and handcuffed. The metal frame of the chair bit into his biceps. He wiggled his toes. No pain. Good, but his ankles were shackled to the metal legs of the chair.

Well, that meant he wasn't going anywhere for a while. At least the chair was comfortable. It had a cushioned back and seat. Now why couldn't police departments get chairs like this?

_Yeah, keep that sense of humor. You're going to need it._

Frank cracked an eye. The right eye. The left was swollen shut. Matted together with partially dried blood. He viewed the room through a slit. Everything was a distorted mess of watery colors and shapes.

A blurry figure moved into his field of view and hovered in front of him. Someone's face. They were talking to him.

Hearing hadn't kicked in yet. Oh, but the pain had. The left side of his face throbbed to a chaotic rhythm. He felt like he'd taken a nose dive off a six story building. He might have a fractured cheek bone. Wouldn't that be fun?

The last thing he remembered was the scary looking guy, the one with the Hyena Face, checking his gun. Then _Bam,_ lights out.

Yup, that dude was bad news.

Heinz kicked Frank in the leg. "Time to wake up, Sleepy Head."

_Where was the other guy?_

Heinz kicked Frank in the leg again, harder. "Time to wake the fuck up. We haven't got all day. Boss wants to see you. He's on the way."

_Boss? Marcus?_

Frank forced his head up, pushed through the pain, and took a look around. Yeah, Hyena Face was the one doing all the talking, calling all the shots. Doing all the kicking, too. Hyena Face was a sadistic bastard. Got his thrills by hurting others.

Frank had to remedy that situation and soon.

Frank's one good eye found the other guy, the pretty-boy, the California surfer dude look-alike. Medium height, good build, blond hair, cool green eyes, and a spray tan. No one's that tan in April. Pretty-Boy leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and looked bored. A handgun was visible in his waistband.

Frank didn't consider Pretty-Boy much of a threat. Frank knew the type. Follows orders, but doesn't go above and beyond the call of duty. Does just enough to get the job done. Likes to keep his risk minimal. He's not the type to put his neck on the line. Especially not for someone like Hyena Face.

Hyena Face was the real threat and Frank wanted a piece of him. Wanted to pound him into the floor.

Hyena Face started pacing .. like a caged lion .. like he was building momentum .. getting ready.

_Not good_. Frank's heart rate ratcheted up a notch.

Pretty-Boy pushed off the wall. "Time to go to work," his voice was like ice – sharp, cold, and dead as a grave.

In this setting the word _work_ held a whole different meaning and a chill cascaded down Frank's spine.

Heinz cracked his knuckles, stepped in front of Frank, and grinned. It was not a fun grin. "Hey Asshole, name's Heinz. I know 57 ways to kill ya." Heinz laughed at his own joke.

Frank returned the grin, mixed it with a sneer. "Cute. How long'd it take you to think that up?"

_Bam!_ A hard right hook that almost knocked Frank and the chair over. He felt warm blood stream down his cheek. Black dots danced before his eyes.

Heinz twisted his head and neck like a snake. Frank heard the snap, crackle, and pop of joints.

_This guy's just getting warmed up_.

Frank saw the second blow coming and rolled with it. Still, it landed solidly enough. Left his ears ringing and his face numb.

Heinz went to work. Delivered blow after blow in a well choreographed pattern of hooks, jabs, and kicks. Nothing escaped Heinz – arms, legs, chest, head. He got them all. He knew how to inflict pain without causing life threatening injuries. A real professional.

Nice to know Marcus hired the best.

Frank, for his part, avoided, deflected, and endured. Growled through the pain and spit out one-liners. _A little to the right next time. I think you missed a spot. That the best you got? _

The one-liners didn't really help the situation – they fueled Heinz's ire. But Frank needed the mental edge they gave him, that small – very small – feeling of control. As long as he could crank out the sarcastic remarks then, in his mind, he was still okay, still in the game. He hadn't given up yet.

_Bam!_ Another blow to the head. It rang Frank's bell and good. He saw stars and flashing lights. When he brought his head up, a fire burned in his eyes. His body trembled, the sort of muscle shake brought on by white hot anger. The kind of anger a man got just before he took a swing. Frank strained against the chair – against the handcuffs and shackles. He wanted to take a swing. A whole lot of swings.

"Not hard to beat a man when he's chained to a chair," Frank growled through clenched teeth. "You want a fight, asshole? Unchain me. We'll fight. Fair and square."

Heinz laughed and wiped sweat from his forehead. He was breathing heavily. Beating the crap out of someone, even someone defenseless, was hard work.

The door opened and a tall, elegant man strolled in. He had the ease and confidence of someone in charge.

Marcus. No question about it, dressed in one of those designer suits – Tommy Hilfiger, Michael Kors, or Hugo Boss – and a silk shirt. He was fit and trim from what Frank could see with his one good eye. Age range: mid-forties to early fifties.

Something pinged at the back of Frank's head, a little mental jolt that said, _something important here. Right in front of you_. Frank took a closer look at Marcus, felt something familiar about him. But what?

"Mr. Hardy. We finally meet." Marcus' tone was conversational, pleasant. "I trust my associates have kept you entertained."

Frank fixed Marcus with a nasty glare. "If by entertained you mean beaten, then yes, I've been thoroughly entertained." _Or thoroughly beaten. Take your pick_. Frank spit out a wad of phlegm and blood. Saw a bit of white in the glob and hoped it wasn't a tooth. Hard to tell with only one eye working.

Marcus broke into a disarming smile. White teeth gleamed in a deceivingly warm and caring face. He'd make a great used car salesman, Frank thought. Well, actually that fit, the salesman part. Marcus sold guns and drugs.

Marcus nodded at Heinz. "I believe Mr. Hardy has issued you a challenge. A fair fight. I'd like to see this … this fair fight." Marcus shifted his attention to Pretty-Boy. "Shell, free our guest."

Hint of an accent. Russian? Frank wondered.

Shell undid the shackles, stood and undid the handcuffs then walked around, lifted a leg, and in one swift motion, kicked. His booted foot landed square on Frank's arm and knocked him off the chair. He crashed onto the floor. Managed to cushion some of the impact with his arms.

Christ, he hurt. On the flipside, the cheek pain didn't bother him anymore. Hell no, now his entire body ached. No pain-free zone here.

"C'mon," Heinz said. "On your feet. Let's get this party started. I'm gonna wipe the floor with you." Always smart to try and instill a little fear in your opponent.

Frank used the chair, pulled himself up and stood on wobbly, throbbing legs. He was hunched and vulnerable looking. Just the way he wanted it. He motioned with his hand, _come on Heinz-old-buddy, come a little closer_. They'd never be buddies, but the sentiment was the same. Mess with me, I'll mess with you.

Heinz smiled – a murderous smile – and shook his head.

_Okay, not so dumb_.

Frank was only going to get one shot at this. Had to time it perfectly. Had to deliver the blow with precision.

Frank stumbled, acted like he was going to fall. Really played it up.

Had to reel Heinz in.

Heinz licked his lips. He was ready for the kill, raring to go, ready to make his move. Frank could see it in his eyes, could taste it.

Frank made his plan. Get Heinz close. Knee him. Then finish him off with a palm strike to the chin. A knock-out blow.

One shot. One chance.

Frank motioned with his hand again, fingers wagging. _C'mon. C'mon_.

Heinz stepped to his right. Frank stepped to his right, saw Heinz make a fist with his right hand, getting ready to swing. Heinz brought his left hand up to guard his face and stepped toward Frank. Frank tensed, readied himself. Heinz pushed off his back foot. His hips and shoulders twisted in Frank's direction. Classic moves for a straight right. Heinz' fist rocketed toward Frank's battered face.

Frank dipped his head to the side. The fist glanced off his left cheek and fresh blood gushed down his face and neck. The left side of Frank's face was numb – thanks to Heinz – so he didn't feel much pain.

Frank's left hand shot out, grabbed Heinz by the shoulder of his shirt, and pulled him half-a-step closer. Frank kneed him in the groin then pushed off his back foot, and threw all his weight forward, toward Heinz. Frank's open right hand came up fast – along the outside of Heinz' chest – the heel of Frank's palm struck the area beneath Heinz' chin with maximum force and energy. Heinz' head snapped back and Frank heard the crack of bones. Heinz rocked on his feet and dropped to the floor.

Lights out. Maybe permanently.

Marcus clapped. Two loud smacks. "Bravo, Mr. Hardy. Very impressive."

Frank spun, saw Marcus smile, and Shell with his handgun raised and ready. Shell didn't look bored now. More akin to mild shock and fear.

Marcus spoke to the air. "Deangelo, get in down here. Get this room cleaned."

Frank wiped blood off his face and looked up. He spotted a small viewing widow. A gravely, harried voice came over a PA system in the vicinity of the window. "Yessir."

Frank figured _get the_ _room cleaned_ meant take out the trash. By trash, Marcus meant Heinz.

"Have a seat, Mr. Hardy," Marcus said. "You've earned it."

Frank wiped the blood on his hand onto his boxers, but made no move to sit.

Marcus appraised Frank. "I could use a man like you in my organization."

"I'd never work for you and you know it." Frank felt blood from his cheek run down his neck.

Deangelo arrived, walked over to Heinz, and smirked. Heinz hadn't moved. Deangelo grabbed Heinz by the ankles and dragged him out of the room.

"Take a seat, Mr. Hardy. I insist," Marcus' voice sharpened in a way that brought Frank's eyes up.

Frank checked the small window above Marcus' head. It was open now and a man with a high-powered rifle peered down. Shell still had his handgun aimed at Frank. Frank figured he should sit. Plus, he was tired. The adrenaline surge he'd enjoyed moments ago was gone. Now, he was feeling the crash.

"Let's talk business," Marcus said.

"That's why I came here," Frank said as he sat in the chair.

Marcus was amused. "Came here? You were brought here on my direct orders."

Frank shook his head. "You're smarter than that, Marcus. Can I call you Marcus?" Frank waited for a response, didn't get one, and continued, "I allowed your men to capture me." Shell bristled at the remark, but his aim never wavered.

Frank said, "Figured it was the best way to find you. Fail proof. No detours. No false leads. Boom, just straight to you."

Marcus eyed Frank with interest.

"Trust me," Frank said, "if I hadn't wanted to be taken, your men wouldn't have gotten close. I just proved that."

Marcus' chin came up and his eyes darkened. "I do admire your skills, Mr. Hardy. That is one of the reasons you're still alive. That and the fact I find you interesting."

"I'm touched." Frank gently rolled his shoulders. The bravado bolstered his spirits, but fatigue and crushing pain threatened to undo him.

"Let's begin again," Marcus said. "No games. No double talk."

"Fine by me." Frank's cheek throbbed, steady shockwaves of pain. It had to be fractured. He should definitely get it checked when he got out of here. If he got out of here.

"Welcome to the Lion's Den," Marcus said.

"Lviv," Frank pronounced the word in flawless Russian.

"Very good, Mr. Hardy. Tell me, what do you know about Lviv, Ukraine?"

"Not much." Frank thought for a second. "It has nice architecture. Was under the Polish Empire for awhile then came under Soviet rule."

"You are correct. Lviv has changed hands many times in its history. It has been ruled by many different nationalities and ethnic groups – the Polish Empire, the Hapsburgs, the Russians, the Ukrainians, the Russians again, and even the Nazis. Lviv has had a most unfortunate history. Quite tragic."

Frank sat stoically. Wondered what the significance of the history lesson was.

"History is important, Mr. Hardy. Those who do not remember the past, are condemned to repeat it."

"So I've heard."

"Everyone knows the names Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka. People know what happened in those places. The slave labor … the gas chambers … the ovens." Frank heard the catch in Marcus' voice. Saw Marcus take a deep breath and exhale slowly, deliberately, like he was preparing himself for … for what?

Frank frowned. "Tragic? Yes. No question. But what does it have to do with Alexander Romanoff, Tasha and Dimitri Romanoff?"

"Revenge, Mr. Hardy. The oldest, simplest motive in the book," Marcus said.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, this chapter was a little longer and you got a little insight into the mystery. My hubby is doing fine now. He's on new meds. Thanks everyone for your concern regarding my husband and for the nice reviews._


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Okay, strap on your seatbelts and buckle up. You're in for a weird ride. If you like history as much as I do, then this chapter's for you. Also, sorry about the delay. I got sidetracked with the holidays, family visits, and writing another story. I'm four chapters in, it's about Joe, and only Joe. I thought about posting it, but figured you all'd string me up by the leftover Christmas lights if I posted another unfinished story. LOL_

_I haven't edited this chapter to death so I apologize in advance for any, and all, errors or typos._

* * *

><p>Chapter 30<p>

Nancy and Joe sat in her car. She was at the wheel. Rain pitter-pattered on the roof. Thin streams of rain quivered down the windshield. Nancy was parked on the side of the road near some tall trees. The trees were part of a wooded area that surrounded the estate where Joe had seen the Town Car enter.

It was late afternoon and the weather had turned cold. The sky was darker than normal because of the cloud cover. Nancy sat huddled in her windbreaker, hands stuffed in the pockets. She and Joe had gone over the plan again.

Joe had his seat pushed all the way back and his backpack on his lap. "You have the list?" he asked.

"Yes." Nancy leaned forward and peered out the windshield. "It's nasty out there."

Joe checked the items in his backpack. "That's why only one of us is going out in it."

"Right."

Joe checked his ammo and handgun.

"How's your stitches?" Nancy said.

"Fine. How's your forehead?"

"A little swollen. But fine."

Joe put his gun down and looked at Nancy. "Everything okay?"

Nancy tossed her head and shook off her doubts. "Yeah. Still a little worried."

"Normal. We've been over this. Frank's safe for the time being. They want the package. They're not going to do anything stupid until they know where the package is."

Nancy nodded. "I know. You're right."

Joe slipped his gun into his shoulder holster. "I'm just going to recon the place. We'll regroup in two hours. You know what to do if they call with a demand."

"Make a counter-demand. Ask to speak to Frank. Listen for background noises."

"Be firm," Joe interjected.

Nancy's eyes narrowed and her hands balled into fists. "I'll be firm."

Joe pulled on a knit cap. "Good. And make sure you get everything on the list."

"I will." _Enough with the damn list._

The sky had grown darker in the few minutes they'd been talking. Joe zipped his jacket, opened the car door, and got out. He shrugged on his backpack.

Nancy leaned across the console and called out the open door, "Be careful."

She saw the flash of a smile.

"Always am."

The door swung shut and Joe was gone.

* * *

><p>Frank sat in the chair, cold and achy. Pain reverberated along every muscle, down every nerve then doubled back and started over again. The adrenaline rush of before was gone – completely – replaced with overwhelming fatigue and the desire to rest, to lay the hell down and sleep. Sleep for ten hours .. three days .. a week.<p>

Marcus undid the top button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. "This story," he told Frank, "the one I am about to tell you, is important. It must be told correctly, appropriately. Such a story can not be rushed. Such a story deserves respect and reverence. You must feel it in your heart." Marcus tapped his chest. "In your soul. You must fully understand what it was like in that place. In that time."

Marcus lifted his head and spoke to the air. "Deangelo, a bottle of my best cognac and a couple of glasses."

Marcus turned back to Frank. "A little something to fog the mind and numb the senses. One can not go wholly conscious into that dark time."

The capable Deangelo soon appeared with cognac and glasses. He placed them on a sideboard Frank hadn't noticed before. The sideboard was white and blended seamlessly into the cold, white room.

Cold. Frank was cold, chilled to the core.

Deangelo lugged in a wingback chair and positioned it in front of Frank. Deangelo wiped his brow, left, and returned with a small ornate table. He placed it between Frank and the wingback chair.

Marcus waved Deangelo out of the room then poured the cognac and handed a snifter to Frank. Marcus raised his glass in toast. "To history."

Frank lifted his glass and drained half the contents. The burn in his throat and warmth in his chest felt good.

Marcus sat in the wingback chair, sipped his cognac, and stared into space, into the unfathomable past. Frank, with his one good eye, studied Marcus. The view was a blur, still Frank noted the aristocratic bearing.

_Ping, ping, ping. There, at the edge of his consciousness, something important_.

Frank blinked, tried to clear his vision. No good, his body was too spent, too bloody and battered, too exhausted. He swirled the cognac and drained the glass. Enjoyed the slow burn and blessed warmth. The heat bloomed in his chest and spread across his shoulders and down his arms.

Marcus spoke softly, "Over 60 million people were killed in World War Two, or the Great Patriotic War as it is known in Russia." He cocked his head and stared at Frank. "Russians were fighting for their country, their families, their lives. What were Americans fighting for, Mr. Hardy?"

Frank gave a subtle shrug. "General Eisenhower said it wasn't what we were fighting for, it was what we were fighting against. The Nazis, the atrocities, the evil, the hatred."

Marcus nodded as if he accepted this answer. He finished his cognac and said, "Another?"

Frank nodded and held out his glass.

Marcus refilled the snifters and settled into the cozy wingback chair. "I'm sure Prince Dimitri has told you about the Romanovs? Their history? The murder of Nicholas II and his family in 1918?"

"Yes."

"That was only the beginning. Within days of the Tsar's murder, the Bolsheviks hunted down and murdered every Romanov they could find. Did Dimtri tell you that?"

"No." Frank sipped his cognac thoughtfully, elbows resting on knees.

"Well, they did. Seventeen to be exact. It was not a good time to be a Romanov. Most saw the handwriting on the wall and fled Russia. They escaped to the region around the Black Sea. Others found shelter and safety with family members living in foreign countries." Marcus took a deep breath, exhaled, and contemplated his drink.

Interesting, Frank thought, but what did any of it have to do with Lviv, Ukraine .. World War II .. the death camps .. the Nazis. And what about the package .. its contents? The ruby-studded cross, the family bible, Alexander Romanoff's notebook, and all those legal documents. What about Alexander's plans to start his own country?

"Dimitri's branch of the family," Marcus said, "fled to Spain. A wise decision as it turned out when World War II started."

_Ping, ping, ping. The familiar bone structure, the aristocratic bearing._

Suddenly, it all made sense.

"And your branch of the Romanov family fled to Lviv," Frank said.

Marcus smiled slowly. "Yes, Mr. Hardy. My great-grandfather, Vladimir Romanov, fled to Lwow as it was called then. It was part of Poland at that time. Dimitri's great-great-grandfather settled in Spain, on the coast. He started a vineyard and then a winery. He did very well for himself. Established a very successful business." **_(Family Trees at the end of this chapter.)_**

"And your great-grandfather? How did things work out for him?" Frank asked.

Marcus stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. "Not so well. Lwow was a volatile place in those days. First, the Polish-Ukrainian Conflict of 1918 and then the Polish-Soviet War of 1920. My great-grandfather, Vladimir, served during the Polish-Soviet War. He was part of a Ukrainian infantry division that defended Lwow. He was killed in action. Left behind a four year old son and wife. Olga. After the war Olga remarried .. a Ukrainian officer. Not the best choice. Although Ukrainians had fought in the Polish-Soviet War, the Poles still resented the hell out of them. Ukrainians were treated like second–class citizens. The Polish government closed Ukrainian schools and fired Ukrainian professors. Vladimir and Olga's son, Constantine, grew up in an ethnically divided city. The Ukrainian officer adopted him, and Constantine came to view himself as a Ukrainian. Ukrainian or Russian, it didn't matter, the Poles hated them both."

Marcus paused and sipped his cognac. "Constantine was 25 when World War II broke out. The Russians and Germans swept into Poland in September of 1939. They easily defeated the Poles and divided up the country. Lwow was renamed Lviv and became part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Initially, my ancestors rejoiced. Their happiness was short lived. The Soviets were harsh masters. Their first order of business was the deportation of thousands of people. Jews, Poles, Ukrainians – anyone who could work was sent east, to Russia."

Marcus' voice dropped to a whisper, "Then .. the Nazis came .. in June 1941 .. and the pogroms began."

Frank's head came up. Pogroms. Massacres.

Marcus saw the interest in Frank's eye. "Pogroms were nothing new in Europe. Europeans had lived through hundreds of them over the centuries. However, this time it was on a much larger scale. A scale so immense the human mind can not even imagine it. The Soviets killed 19,000 Polish and Ukrainian political prisoners before they withdrew from Ukraine. They forced another three and a half million people east with them. Everyone has heard about the Jews, the six million lost in the Holocaust. Few have heard of the horrors the Ukrainians suffered. Do you, Mr. Hardy, know how many Ukrainians were killed in World War II?"

Frank felt a stab of shame through the center of his chest. "No."

"Historians and researchers put the number between ten to thirteen million." Hate and rage glowed in Marcus' eyes. "Ukraine lost more people than any other country. One fourth of its population. Can you imagine your country losing one fourth of its population in a few short years?"

Frank shook his head, lowered his eyes, and sat pensively staring at his cognac.

Marcus continued, "Ukrainians fought back and paid with their lives. For every act of rebellion, for every Nazi killed, a hundred Ukrainians were executed. A hundred helpless souls plucked from the streets and shot. Oh, the Nazis knew how to instill fear. They were masters at it. Sometimes they hung the victims from balconies. Let the corpses sway in the breeze for days. Those swaying corpses served as a poignant warning, and incentive, to all who walked the cobbled streets."

Marcus told the facts well and Frank listened well. The cognac did its job as well. Frank was getting good and plastered. His head buzzed and his grip on reality blurred. He felt time shift, realign its self. Nothing was what it seemed. The walls of the room receded and he slipped into the past .. into war torn Ukraine.

_Dirt, grime, and filth filled his nose. The air was thick and pungent. The smell of his own sweat and blood pulled him down, onto the cobbled streets. Hungry, hollow-eyed people slithered past. Men fought over scraps of food while skeleton-thin dogs nipped at their heels. Nazis with machine guns rounded a corner and people scurried into doorways and alleys. Out of sight, out of mind. The hungry men, pushing and shoving, paid the soldiers no heed. The soldiers shouted at the men and took pot-shots. The soldiers laughed uproariously when the men scattered in a flurry of bony limbs and ragged clothes. Frank ducked into a doorway, pressed his back to a wooden door. The bang, bang, bang of the machine guns rattled in his ears as fear's icy fingers slid round his throat. _

Marcus' voice seemed to come from far away, "Entire villages were wiped out. The Nazis rounded up every man, woman, and child and herded them to the center of town. Shot them in the head or neck and burned the entire village."

_Children wailed, heart-rending cries. Mothers screamed and clutched babies to their breasts. Men shouted protests as they tried to defend themselves and their families._

_Shots rang out and bodies fell like Dominoes. Heavy thuds. Soft thuds._

_Cries from a motherless baby filled the dusty air and made the soldiers anxious._

_A solitary shot broke the tension and the baby cried no more. The percussion crack of the rifle echoed across the killing grounds. _

_No one was safe. No place was safe._

"My grandfather, Constantine, was a member of the OUN. The Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists." Marcus' words were fragments, slivers of the present fracturing the past.

Frank shook himself and came back to reality.

"The Nazis took control of Lviv with an iron hand. They rounded up university professors and the Polish elite and executed them. The OUN welcomed these actions."

And took part in many of them, Frank thought. He knew a little about the OUN. Terror and violence were their preferred methods for forcing political change. They had assassinated dozens of Polish officials in the 1930s. Frank also knew that Nazi Germany had secretly provided the OUN with material support before the outbreak of World War II. After the war started, Germany allowed the creation of two OUN battalions. These battalions were called the Ukrainian Legion and operated under direct German command. Their mission: carry out subversive activities against the USSR.

Marcus' voice penetrated Frank's thoughts. "The OUN set up a provisional government in Lviv and declared the establishment of an independent Ukrainian state. A presumptive move on their part. The Nazis weren't interested in a free Ukraine. They were looking for _Lebensraum_, living space, for the master race. The Nazis quickly arrested and imprisoned members of the OUN. Many were killed outright, others were sent to concentration camps in Poland and Germany."

"There were two factions of the OUN," Frank said. "The OUN-M and the OUN-B."

"Yes." Marcus gave Frank a smile of approval. "The OUN-M was led by a moderate, Melnyk. OUN-B was led by an extremist, Stepan Bandera. Both factions collaborated with the Nazis and, unfortunately against each other. It was the OUN-B who had declared an independent Ukraine in Lviv and it was the OUN-B who felt the Nazi's wrath. The Nazis, tipped off by the OUN-M, arrested and murdered thousands of OUN-B members.

"My grandfather, Constantine, was originally a member of the OUN-B, but like many others, once the arrests and executions started, he switched sides, joined the OUN-M. It was a dangerous game, in a dangerous time. His loyalty was questioned and tested. The fact he was actually Russian did not help matters. He tried to keep his heritage a secret, but spies were everywhere waiting for any chance to better their position within the organization or with the Nazis."

_No one was safe. No place was safe_.

"Constantine had married a Ukrainian woman and had a six year old son. He feared for their safety and wrote to his cousin, Mikhail Romanov, in Spain. Constantine begged Mikhail to take his wife and son. To shelter them until the war was over. Mikhail agreed to take the son, but not the wife. He knew of the OUN and did not agree with their methods or ideology. He assumed, correctly, that the wife ascribed to the OUN's way of thinking.

"Angry letters were exchanged. Constantine pleaded with his cousin, but Mikhail stood firm. No wife. As it turned out, the wife didn't want to go. She was an ultra-nationalist and the freedom of her country was paramount. She chose to stay in Ukraine and fight with her husband.

"Constantine was not happy about this, but his wife was unyielding. She did, however, agree that their child should be protected. Six year-old Mykola was sent to Spain. Mikhail had connections in the Spanish Embassy and was able to facilitate safe passage for the boy."

Marcus paused and drained his cognac. Frank imagined Marcus had come to the hardest part of his story. Marcus motioned at the decanter and Frank accepted a third offering of cognac.

As Frank lifted his glass to his lips, Marcus resumed his story. "Shortly after Mykola arrived in Spain, Constantine's heritage was discovered. Being Russian and a descendant of the Tsar was a lethal combination. The Nazis hunted him down, arrested him, and sent him to Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp. He died there. Gassed or executed, I am not sure. His wife was shattered. She joined the partisans and fought against both, the Germans and Soviets. She survived the war only to be trapped behind the iron curtain of Soviet-Ukraine. The bitterest irony of all, she never saw her son again. She died two years before Ukraine gained its freedom."

"Fascinating story." Frank slurred the words slightly.

"Yes," Marcus agreed. "Mikhail raised Mykola. Gave him a good education but kept knowledge of his mother and father from him. Mikhail told the boy his parents had been killed shortly after his arrival in Spain. Mikhail later claimed he did this because Mykola was high-strung. If he'd known his father was in a concentration camp there would have been no dealing with him, or so Mikhail said.

"It is true, Mykola did not go easily to Spain. The separation from his beloved mother and father devastated him. He threw fits and begged to be returned to Ukraine.

"Years later, when Mykola was grown, he returned to his birth country. His mother was dead by then. He searched the countryside. Found nothing. Everything and everyone he had known and loved, was gone. Obliterated. Erased from the face of the earth.

"He returned to Spain with hate in his heart. He'd been betrayed by is own family, by Mikhail. It was a betrayal he never forgave.

"Mykola was my father. I walk in his footsteps. I feel his pain. It lives inside of me." Marcus tapped his chest for emphasis.

"After all he'd suffered, Mykola wasn't fit to be a father. He'd met a Ukrainian woman during his journey. I am the result. My mother flitted in and out of my life and Mykola abandoned me when I was young. It was Mikhail's son, Andrei, who took me in and gave me a home. Andrei had a son, Alexander. We were treated as equals, as brothers. Or so I thought.

"Alexander and I grew up together. Played together in his father's vineyards. I absorbed all the knowledge I could about grapes, wines, and vineyards. I knew more about vineyards and his father's business than Alexander. I prided myself on this and thought, one day Alexander and I would inherit the Romanoff vineyards. We will make them something special, something for the future generations of Romanoffs."

Marcus slumped in his chair as if the wind had gone out of his sails.

"Life is full of hopes and dreams. And surprises. When Andrei died, Alexander inherited his father's business. I was left out completely. Betrayed, just like my father before me. Andrei had taken me in, treated me as a son, but in the end, I was nothing to him."

Marcus stood and patted his pants pockets. Frank sat up a little straighter, tried to focus. His head was buzzing and the room was spinning. No, Marcus' cell phone was buzzing.

Marcus lifted the phone to his ear and listened. After a moment, he said, "I'll be there soon. You know what to do until I arrive." Marcus pocketed the phone and returned his attention to Frank. "Let us finish."

Marcus plopped in the wingback chair and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "I went to Alexander with a proposal, a way to bring the family together again. Start our own country. It was a wonderful idea and I'd already done the legwork. I had the necessary papers and signed agreements from the Spanish government. Alexander was impressed, enthralled. I could see the greed in his eyes. He agreed to everything and we were brothers again working toward a common goal. Unfortunately, he discovered my true intentions. Guns and drugs would leave in shipments of wine. Alexander wanted no part of illegal trafficking and he reneged on the deal. He wanted out.

"He was betraying me just as his father had. I tried to reason with him. Told him the truth, my life was on the line. I'd made deals with people, dangerous people, their guns were to be shipped in exchange for favors. How did he think I had secured the necessary paperwork for a country?!" Marcus was out of his chair, animated, punctuating his words with broad gestures. "He didn't care. It was my problem, not his he said. He threatened me and I threatened him."

Frank pushed to his feet and stood on wobbly legs. The room was definitely spinning. "You arranged for him to have a car accident."

Marcus stared at him, stony and silent, unreadable.

Frank was feeling warm and fuzzy thanks to the cognac. He clutched the back of his chair and spoke in a halting slur that would have shamed him on any other night, "But you couldn't find the papers. Alexander hid 'em too well. You need the papers. You can still have your country if you can find the papers."

Marcus said nothing.

Frank said, "Do Dimitri and Tasha know about you? Alexander must've told them, right?"

Marcus threw back his head and laughed, surprising Frank. "You ask many questions, my friend, but not the important one." In an instant Marcus' demeanor changed, became serious. He got close to Frank, brought his mouth to Frank's ear, and whispered, "Whose side are you on? Mine or theirs? This is what you must decide."

Before Frank could reply, Marcus spun like a swashbuckler. "Shell, a cot for our guest. He's spending the night. He needs time to think." Marcus spun back to Frank. "Sleep well, Mr. Hardy. Think long and hard tonight. Your decision will affect not only you, but those you love."

Chuckling, Marcus staggered out of the room. Shell retrieved a canvas cot from somewhere and kicked it toward Frank. Frank dropped onto the cot and closed his eye. He was beyond exhausted. Bone tired. His mind burned with thoughts and images. Too many of them. How could one mind hold so many thoughts? Round and round they went. A kaleidoscope of images chased by disturbing thoughts.

Shell turned off the lights and Frank heard him say something about "_sleep while you can_" and "_tomorrow's gonna be a bitch_." Frank figured it was a good time to pass out. And did.

* * *

><p><strong>Dimitri (b. 1985) and Natasha (b. 1982) Romanoff Family Tree<strong>

Father = Alexander Romanoff born in Spain in 1959. Cousin of Marcus Volk.

Grandfather = Andrei Romanoff born in Spain in 1929.

Great-Grandfather = Mikhail Romanov born in Russia in 1910.

Great-Great Grandfather = Dmitri Romanov born in Russia in 1884.

**Marcus Volk (b. 1963) Family Tree**

Father = Mykola (Ukrainian form of Nicholas) Volk born in Ukraine in 1935.

Grandfather = Constantine Romanov born in Russia in 1914.

Great-Grandfather = Vladimir Romanov born in Russia in 1886. Married Olga.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Dark storm clouds followed Nancy all the way to Wal-Mart. The place for everything on the list. Raindrops hammered the roof and peppered the windshield. A flash of lightning lit the sky and the slick pavement. Seconds later, a crack of thunder echoed overhead.

Nancy wondered how Joe was doing .. alone .. in the rain and dark.

Joe was literally up a tree, sprawled on a thick pine branch. He had reconned half of the property and discovered that whoever lived in this mansion, and on this property, was security conscious. Highly security conscious. Stone walls and wrought-iron gates with guards and guard shacks were the first line of defense. Surveillance cameras, evenly spaced along the top of the stone wall, were the second line.

Joe, cold and wet, was stretched prone on the tree branch. A sharp wind whipped through the pine branches and pelted him with icy raindrops. He shivered and tightened his grip on his rifle.

He'd had a helluva time getting up the tree, to this branch. A bulky backpack and rifle strapped to his back hadn't helped. The goal, to get a view inside the wall, hadn't happened. The wall was too high. Still, the climb was worthwhile. Joe had a perfect shot at one of the surveillance cameras. Take it out and he could scramble over the wall and have a look around.

Joe's legs were wrapped around the branch. He had a stable firing position. Perched in front of him was his rifle, his arms draped on either side of it. He peered through the scope and made minor adjustments.

Down to timing now. Time the shot with a bolt of lightning. Whoever manned the cameras would think a lightning strike had taken out the camera. On a night like this, who was going to come out and check to see if that was true? Joe was betting on no one.

The camera turned slowly on its skinny little stand as it scanned the 60 foot gap between the wall and pine trees. Joe had climbed the tree carefully, had synced his movements to the camera's dead zones. Now, he waited, index finger on the trigger, the scent of wet pine and bark in his nose.

Then, a flash of lightning.

_Bang! _Joe fired.

Thunder rumbled as the butt of the gun jolted into Joe's shoulder. The sight picture disappeared in a blur of recoil then came back into focus. The camera was a smoking, black box.

Joe snapped the rifle's safety on, shouldered it, and worked his way down the tree.

Half an hour later, he was over the wall and creeping toward the mansion. Manicured shrubs and leafy trees offered cover. Joe avoided the swimming pool to the right. Rain pitter-pattered on the pool cover and deck. On the patio chairs and tables and masked the sound of Joe's movement. He moved rapidly, keeping hidden from cameras.

He got within a hundred yards of the mansion and crouched beside a rosebush. A small covered patio jutted from the back of the mansion. The kind of patio used by office staff, not family. This part of the mansion was for business operations, Joe was sure of that. A separate driveway led to the patio.

Joe waited. Rain pelted his poncho. The constant drumming blocked all other sounds. Joe shivered, took a power bar from his pack and munched. Suddenly, a door opened and a block of rectangular light lit the small patio. A blond man stepped onto the patio and lit a cigarette. He inhaled and stared at the driveway like he was waiting for someone. He exhaled, a cloud of smoke circled his head.

Joe watched the man and the driveway. Headlights appeared, coming slow, growing larger as they approached. The car drove up to the patio and stopped. The blond man dropped his cigarette on the wet patio and crushed it. The driver of the car exited and the blond nodded to him. The passenger's door opened and a large man got out. Joe recognized him instantly, Luka. Luka opened the back door of the car and fumbled with the occupant. The driver joined him and together they pulled a drunken man from the car.

Joe lifted his binoculars. The man crumpled on the driveway was Mr. X.

The driver ordered Mr. X to stand. He tried, but couldn't. He was too drunk. Luka and the driver manhandled Mr. X to his feet and shoved him toward the patio. He fell and they wrestled him to his feet and dragged him onto the patio where he collapsed in front of the blond man. Joe took a good look at the blond. He was one of the men who had abducted Frank from the office.

All the players were here. All in one place. That meant Marcus was here, too. He owned this place.

Frank was in real danger.

* * *

><p>Nancy had everything on the list. Snack foods, water, towels, a blanket, and plastic bags. She piled everything into the trunk of her car and headed to the mansion.<p>

The rain hadn't let up. It came down harder. Nancy wondered how Joe was doing. Cold and wet she bet. She parked in the spot they'd parked in before, among the pine trees.

She waited in the car, in the dark. Rain pounded the roof. She checked her phone, the light blindingly bright in the dark car. One text message, from Joe, sent minutes ago.

_N,_

_Bring food and water. You're coming over the wall. We're staking out the place._

_J_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yeah, I know it's short and it's been a long time. Well, school is finally over and I can get back to writing. I've been working on _The Beach_, too, and hope to update it soon. Take care everyone._


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Frank jolted awake. A grinning Shell stood next to the cot. Fear brought Frank fully awake. Pain surged through him and caused his breath to come in short, quick gasps. Shell backed away from the cot, his grin widening into a smile, a smile of foreboding.

Frank swung his feet onto the floor. The cold tile stung the bottom of his feet. Frank needed two things. Water and to pee. Not necessarily in that order.

"I need to pee," he said to Shell.

"Bathroom's that way." Shell jerked his head and thumb over his shoulder.

Frank rose. Stiffness haunted every joint, every move. His mouth felt like cotton balls. He hobbled, more than walked, in the direction of the bathroom. Shell's eyes followed him the entire way, bore into his back. If looks could kill, Frank was already dead.

Frank did his business, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his tender face. God, he looked bad. The mirror reflected a black and blue mess of a human being. His face, swollen beyond recognition, had dried blood caked on the left cheek, neck, and chest. His left eye was swollen shut. Yellowish-green pus seeped from the corner. Not a good sign.

Frank adjusted his boxers, the only clothing he wore, and returned to the room. The cot was gone and Marcus sat in one of the wingback chairs. His pose would have made a great photo shoot – designer suit, fresh shave, nice cologne, and steaming cup of coffee. Frank wondered if a cup of coffee was in his future.

No such luck. Any pleasantries they'd shared yesterday were over.

Marcus motioned Frank into the wingback chair opposite him. "Decision time, Mr. Hardy. What have you decided? Me or them?" Marcus sipped his coffee.

Frank chose his words carefully. "My job was to get Tasha back. I got her back. Mission accomplished. My job's done."

"So, you side with Dimitri."

"I didn't say that. I said, my job is done."

Marcus' voice was cold and low, "I'd hoped for a different answer. Hoped you'd see things my way."

Frank took a deep breath, held it through the pain, and let it out slow. "To be honest, I'm tired of this game. I'd like to be on my way."

"Mr. Hardy, you are not going anywhere. Not until I get the package. You haven't forgotten about it, have you? I'd hate to think Heinz did some permanent damage to that sharp brain of yours. That would be a real shame."

Frank leaned forward, put his forearms on his thighs, and laced his hands together. The pain came in crushing waves now. Pain that stole his breath. Made him gasp. He fought through it, wave after wave, tried to stay focused. _What was Marcus saying? And where the hell was Shell?_

A door opened and Shell ushered in another man. Older, in his fifties, a little overweight, and wearing only boxers. Frank recognized him, Mr. X. X looked bad, like they'd worked him over.

No, he hadn't been beaten. Frank recognized the look, knew it well. He'd worn it more than once after his wife, Callie, had left him. Mr. X was a man with a bad hangover. A really bad hangover.

Men and alcohol. Men turned to alcohol for all the wrong reasons.

Shell shoved Mr. X into a folding chair. With a loud creak it protested the sudden weight.

Marcus rose and nodded to Shell. Right on cue, Shell backhanded Mr. X with the butt of his pistol. Mr. X groaned and his head slumped to the side.

"You see," Marcus said to Frank, "I have little patience for people who disappoint me. Mr. X has disappointed me twice. He lost Tasha to you and he did not obtain the package. He knows his life is forfeited."

Frank tried to focus, to concentrate on Marcus and his words. Frank's one good eye had blurred. The world was nothing but shapes and smudges. He was lost in a chaos of pain and confusion.

Marcus was dangerous, truly dangerous and Frank saw no way out of the danger he faced.

Marcus held up Frank's cell phone and pushed a button. "Let's see if your partner is willing to spare your life."

_Who was Marcus calling? And why?_

* * *

><p>Nancy and Joe spent a wet night 'camped' in the garden keeping watch over the small patio and private driveway. When the sun rose Nancy felt the temperature rise, too. She removed her poncho and shoved it into her pack. As she zipped the pack her cell phone vibrated on her hip. She nudged Joe and pointed to her phone.<p>

He nodded and motioned for her to check the caller ID. Frank's number. She showed Joe.

"This is it," he said.

Nancy lifted the phone to her face. "Frank, how are you?"

Marcus' voice came over the line, "Miss Drew, I assume."

"Yes. Who is this? I want to speak to Frank."

"All in good time. Here's what you need to know. I want the package. Mr. Hardy for the package. Do you understand?"

Nancy froze. Frank for the package. She'd known this was a possibility. Still, the reality chilled her.

"I'm waiting, Miss Drew." Marcus' voice sent a shudder down her spine.

"Yes. I understand. Frank for the package. I want to speak to Frank. No deal until I know he's alive." Her voice was as hard as forged steel.

A long pause. Nancy waited, barely breathing. Then Frank's voice, ragged and tired, "Nan, don't do it. Don't – "

Marcus' voice returned. "As you can see, he's alive. I want the package in one hour. I'll give you instructions on where to meet me."

Nancy panicked. "One hour? I can't get the package in one hour. It's impossible. I need two or three -"

"Miss Drew, you disappoint me. And I do not like disappointments." Marcus eyed Mr. X slumped in the folding chair.

"Today's Sunday. The place where the package is, is closed. I need time to locate the owners, to get the business opened …"

"I'm hearing excuses, Miss Drew. I do not like excuses. Excuses and disappointments make me angry. Can you feel my anger, Miss Drew? Let me explain the rules to you. You have one hour to deliver the package. If you do not, Mr. Hardy will die. He'll be the first. If you do not deliver the package in three hours then another person will die. Maybe your father, Carson Drew, or your housekeeper. Maybe a random person on the street. A child playing in their yard. You do not know where I'll strike. Every three hours someone will die unless I have the package. Do I make myself clear?"

Nancy was trembling. "Give me three hours. I need three hours. I explained –"

The connection went dead. Nancy looked to Joe.

"It's fine." Joe ran a hand down Nancy's arm. "We'll get in. Free him. Look on the bright side, we know he's alive and we've got 59 minutes to save him."

Nancy and Joe discussed options and plans. Calling the police was out. Fifty minutes left. The police would never arrive in time. Warning the public about random shootings would only create mass panic.

Nancy and Joe had to get to Frank and get him out. A plan was made. Joe would approach the patio and break-in. Nancy would stay hidden in the rosebush providing cover. Once Joe had the patio door open, she'd follow him in.

Joe got to the covered patio and crouched beside a shrub. The sun was higher, the air humid and warm. Sweat beaded Joe's forehead. Nancy lay prone behind the rosebush sighting down the barrel of her M16. She saw Joe wipe sweat off his forehead. The patio door opened and Joe dropped to a knee, his rifle at the ready.

Shell and Luke sat at a small patio table. Shell lit a cigarette and tilted back in his wrought-iron chair. Luka checked his watch and drummed the tabletop. "So, how we do it?"

Shell exhaled smoke and gave Luka a weary look. "I know you'd like to cut him up, torture him a bit more, but you know the deal. Here, at the mansion, it's drowning. Marcus doesn't want any blood at the house. Doesn't want the missus to find it."

Luka grunted then smiled. "We do Mr. X first. Let the private eye watch. Let him see what's coming. Then we'll see how tough he is."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you for the reviews. Those are greatly appreciated. I know people are waiting for updates and I apologize for the delays. You folks really deserve a better author than me._


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Shell and Luka returned to the mansion. Joe hustled back to Nancy and filled her in on the conversation he'd heard. "They plan to drown Mr. X and Frank in the pool. I think we keep this simple. I can take them out with a couple of head shots. You'll get Frank. Then we get the hell out of here."

"Got it." Nancy didn't have a better idea, didn't think there was a better idea. Not with only 20 minutes left.

Joe scanned the garden. "There." He pointed to a grouping of flowers and bushes. "We set up there. Good cover. Good view of the patio, the mansion, and the pool."

* * *

><p>Shell kicked Frank in the leg. "Get up."<p>

Luka kicked Mr. X. "C'mon, old man. Time to get up."

Mr. X mumbled something unintelligible and his head rolled from side to side. Frank struggled to his feet. His stomach revolted at the upright position. His head felt ready to explode, like his brain was too big for his skull. He thought about throwing a few punches. Stupid. He didn't have the strength, or focus, not against two armed men.

Shell zip-tied Frank's hands behind his back and shoved him toward the door. Luka did the same to Mr. X. The four men exited the building and stood on the patio. Frank blinked in the bright sunlight. Mr. X moaned, doubled over, and vomited.

"My shoes. You ruined my fucking shoes you, old fuck." Shell lifted a foot to show Mr. X. Mr. X didn't see a thing. Luka beat him in the head with the butt of his pistol.

Shell grabbed Luka's arm. "Hey, stop. Stop! Remember the rule about blood?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry man." Luka stepped back and took a deep breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let's get this over with."

In the bushes, Nancy adjusted her binoculars and stifled a gasp. The sight of Frank horrified her. Bruised torso, arms, and legs. Face – a caricature – a lumpy, swollen mass. One eye barely open. The other swollen shut, pus and blood oozed from the corner. Her heart broke and her anger flared. "We have to get him out of here."

Joe spoke, soft and reasonable, "Stay calm." He sighted through his scope, pushed the butt of his rifle snug into his shoulder, and kept the crosshairs on Shell as he led Frank to the pool.

A knot of anger hardened in Nancy's gut. She watched Shell and Luka shove and prod Frank and Mr. X toward he pool. Mr. X staggered and swayed, almost fell, somehow managed to stay on his feet.

The men were stopped a foot from the edge of the pool. Frank and Mr. X stood side by side. Frank on the right, Mr. X on the left. Sunlight reflected off the water and stung Frank's eye. His head throbbed and pulsed. The barrel of a pistol was pressed into his back, between the shoulder blades. The same happened to Mr. X.

Luka stood behind the men, a pistol in each hand. "One small move and you're dead."

Shell was at their feet, attaching zip-ties to their ankles.

Now, Frank knew without a doubt what Shell and Luka intended. Drown him and Mr. X. It was a shock to Frank's nervous system. Until now, he'd figured Marcus was buffing, hedging his bets. No, this was real and Frank felt foolish and weak. A heavy weight crushed his heart. He'd been wrong, made a mistake, misjudged his opponent. When? Didn't matter. Time to face the situation and figure a way out.

_Splash!_ Mr. X was pushed into the pool. Cold water splattered Frank's lower legs and feet. The water was a cold, hard realization of the fate awaiting him. He rallied, gathered his senses. Marshalled his strength and will.

"Watch him die," Shell said with a smile and jerked his chin in the direction of Mr. X sputtering and writhing in the pool.

A pitiful sight. One that almost made Frank sorry for the man, until he remembered, this man had sent many others to death in far worse ways.

"You're next," Shell said. "Unless I get a satisfactory answer to my question."

With his one eye, Frank looked at Shell. "What?"

"The package. Where is it?" Shell leveled his pistol at Frank.

Frank dipped his head. "Don't know. My partner, Miss Drew, took it. Put it somewhere safe. She didn't tell me, or anyone, where she put it."

Shell clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Not the answer Marcus wants to hear."

"It's the truth."

"Sometimes, the truth can kill you."

Frank squinted at the pool. A dark shape popped above the water, gasped, and then sank.

"One more time," Shell said, "where's the package?"

"I don't know. Honestly." Frank felt a hard shove, square in the middle of his back. The cold water hit him like a sledgehammer and stole his breath. Pain lanced through him, shocked him into action.

_Surface! Get to the surface, get some air_.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yay! Another chapter. Boo. A cliffhanger. Don't fret, I'll try not to keep you waiting. ;)_


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Joe lay prone on the ground, the most stable shooting position. He'd watched his brother disappear beneath the water. Now, his focus was back on his target, Luka. The man was grinning, having a hell of a time today. A whole lot of fun. That was about to end. Joe adjusted his aim and centered the crosshairs on Luka's head.

"You're mine, son of a bitch." Joe snicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

_Bang!_

Luka fell like a wet rag. Shell spun and saw Luka dead, blood spreading on the pool deck. Shell started to drop to the ground to take cover, to minimize his size. A bullet tore through his chest and he went down on one knee. He put a hand to his chest, to the wound, then pulled it away and fell facedown onto the pool deck.

Joe cursed and glanced at Nancy. She had her boots off.

"I'm going in after him." She ripped off her socks and tossed them aside.

"I'll cover you," Joe said. "Be careful. I'm not sure the blond guy's dead. I didn't get a clean shot."

Nancy raced to the pool in a crouch. Joe didn't think she'd heard a word he said.

* * *

><p>Panic. Adrenaline. Too much emotion. Frank thrashed in the water, hands tied behind his back, ankles zip-tied together. Which way was up?<p>

_You're wasting energy! Stop fighting. Calm down. Let your body float. It'll float to the surface_.

Frank summoned his willpower and forced himself to calm down. Blood pounded in his ears and his chest ached. He ignored all that and concentrated on relaxing. Had to relax. Had to. He felt himself drift up, slowly. Agonizingly slow. He gave a gentle kick, like a dolphin, and looked up.

Light. Blessed light shone above.

He broke through the surface and filled his lungs. Then he was under again. Going down. He thought of Navy Seals, their underwater training. Trainees were tied up just like him and blindfolded and dropped in a pool. Simulated tortured and drowning. He couldn't remember, but he thought the Seals had to stay in the pool thirty minutes. The key – control. Control your emotions, remain calm, and for Chrissakes, don't panic.

His toes touched the bottom of the pool. He pushed off and floated up, toward the surface. Toward air and light. A small kick brought his head out of the water. A quick breath and he was under again.

How long could he do this? Up and down. He was bone tired, exhausted. Pain racked his body – every nerve and every muscle.

And what about Shell and Luka? They weren't going to just stand by and watch him keep surfacing. Eventually, they'd start shooting.

He felt a disturbance in the water. Someone was in the pool. Were they coming after him? Of course, they were. But who? Shell or Luka? Probably Luka. Frank's focus had slipped. The water buffeted him, rocked him sideways. Was he going up or down? He couldn't remember. Which was it? Up or down?!

Panic swept over him. _Focus! Get it together. Get your head back in the game. Stick to the routine_._ Up and down._

But which was it? Up or down? His toes touched the bottom. Down! He'd been going down. He pushed off and headed for the surface. A slither of light beckoned above.

He broke through the water and gulped air.

"Frank!" Nancy's voice. Close. Real close.

Relief washed over him as he went under. A hand grabbed him, held his right arm, and pulled. His head came out of the water and a swim ring was pushed under his head. Nancy swam, gripping the swim ring with one hand and his arm with the other hand. Powerful kicks churned the water and propelled them to the pool steps.

The steps brushed his legs. Nancy pushed the swim ring away, pulled him out of the water as best she could, and collapsed on the step beside him. The water came up to her waist. She was tired and breathing hard.

Frank tried to lever himself up. The movement made a direct connection to his fractured cheek, his swollen eye, his headache, and set off a bomb inside his head.

He groaned. "Can you get these zip ties off?"

"Yeah." Nancy had brought wire cutters. She snipped off the ankle and wrist ties and helped Frank to his feet.

"Let's get the hell outta here," he said.

She squeezed his hand. Her touch sent a tingling sensation up his arm and right into his heart. He loved her, wanted to tell her, but this didn't seem like the right moment. Not with two men lying dead a few feet away and another floating in the pool.

"This way," she said and they took off, half running, half jogging.

Frank battled pain, fatigue, and nausea the whole way. Joe had Nancy's pack ready and tossed it to her as they ran to the wall. Joe's rope ladder dangled there, waiting. An insurmountable obstacle. Frank didn't think he could climb it. The short run had winded him. He had his hands on his thighs and was panting.

Nancy wouldn't hear of it. He wasn't giving up now, not when she stood there shivering in wet clothes and no shoes. She pushed, prodded, and encouraged him all the way to the top of the ladder.

Joe kept watch and grumbled, "We need to get the hell over the flipping wall."

Frank swung a leg over the top of the wall and fell. He hit the ground hard and lay motionless. Fear welled in Nancy's chest. She landed next to him and patted his cheek. "Frank. Frank. You okay?"

His eyes fluttered open and he stared at her.

She helped him to his feet. "C'mon Frank, just a little farther. We're almost there."

He draped an arm over her shoulder. She supported him as they stumbled to the car. He fell into the back seat, his gaze glassy and confused. She placed a hand on his neck and felt for a pulse. His breathing was choppy. His pulse jumpy.

"We have to get you to a hospital." She got behind the wheel and started the engine.

Joe ran up, tossed his gear into the open trunk, and slammed it shut. He dived into the back seat. The car was in motion before he could close the door.

Joe wrapped Frank in a blanket as Nancy sped to the hospital.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Geez, this chapter has been a bear to write. For those savvy readers, yes, this chapter has changed. Not in content, but I have reworked the beginning and some other parts._

_To Caranath: Glad you like my grown-up, non-emotional take on the brothers. Yes, the military training will do that. Hope my reference to Navy Seals meets with your approval. Gotta love those Seals. :)_


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Buttery shafts of light filtered through the blinds. He'd been in the hospital for three hours. An IV pumped antibiotics and fluids into his arm. A nurse had given him pain meds. The doctor had said he was dehydrated and had a fractured cheek bone. No surprise there. Would've been surprised if it wasn't fractured. Treatment? Ice and rest. Yeah, that was a laugh. The ice pack was damn heavy and hurt like a son of a bitch.

Oh well, at least he could catch up on his sleep. He was dozing when Nancy walked in. She'd gone home, showered, and changed into dry clothes. She'd also stopped by the office and gotten clothes for him. No telling what Marcus had done with his clothes … and his cell phone, and wallet, and shoes, and keys. Damn. He hated losing the keys. They were going to have to change all the locks at the office.

Nancy dropped her purse on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked bad, worse than she remembered, but she was happy to see him resting.

He felt her hip against the side of his hip – warm, strong, supple. Not long ago he'd felt the pressure of her hips against his, in a different way, a more intimate way. The memory rushed back like a flash flood and, suddenly, he wanted her. That had to be a good sign. Meant he was out of danger.

He reached for her hand and their fingers entwined.

"How you doing?" she asked whisper soft.

"Fine." He breathed in her scent. The smell amazed him, aroused him further. "You're beautiful."

She smiled. "How would you know? You haven't opened your eyes."

"I can see you … with my mind's eye. You're gorgeous."

She laid a hand on his forehead. "Hmm, doesn't feel like you have a fever."

He opened his eyes. "Even prettier in real life."

She fingered the IV. "What are they pumping you full of? It seems to have … effected you."

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "You've effected me."

"In a good way, I hope."

"A very good way." His smile grew wider.

A disheveled Joe entered the room. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair stood on end. "Nan, you're here."

"Yeah, you can go home now. Take a shower and get some rest."

"Not until Burkhart gets here." Joe checked his watch. "He should be here about -"

"Now." Detective Burkhart stood in the doorway. "Damn Hardy, you look like a semi hit you."

"More like someone's fist." Frank released Nancy's hand.

Burkhart turned to Joe. "Next time, it would be nice if you called me _before_ you killed someone, not after."

Joe's eyes darkened.

"I recognized your work. Single shots. No misses. No double taps."

Joe shrugged. "Maybe someone doesn't like to waste bullets."

"Yeah," Burkhart said. "Learn that in sniper school?"

Joe's jaw clenched and he said nothing.

"Uh huh." Burkhart cleared his throat. "After your phone call I located Marcus Volk at his Country Club having Sunday brunch with wife. As expected, he claims to know nothing about a kidnapping." Burkhart looked at Frank. "As soon as they release you we're going to need you to come down to the station and pick him out of a lineup. You can file kidnapping charges then, too."

"And attempted murder." Frank pushed himself up.

"Right. Who pushed you in the pool?"

"Luka."

"Luka Andreno," Burkhart said. "He's dead. Head shot. What can you tell me about the other guy, Shell Pettijohn? What part did he play? He do the beat down?"

Frank shook his head. "No, a guy named Heinz did the beating. A real pro."

"What happened to him?"

Frank shifted in the bed. "Don't know. Didn't see him today."

"Odd." Burkhart frowned. "What else can you tell me about this guy, Shell?"

"Not much. Got the feeling he didn't like to get his hands dirty. He mainly stayed in the background and watched. He let Heinz do the beating."

"Well, Heinz has moved to the top of my list. I'll have my guys start looking for him. If we find him, we can hold him for assault and battery."

"And breaking and entering," Frank said.

"And kidnapping," Nancy added.

Burkhart grinned. "His rap sheet is getting longer by the minute."

Joe said, "Have your guys searched the mansion? Heinz might be hiding out there?"

"They're in the process now," Burkhart said. "It's a big place. The search could take a couple of days. You might like to know that when my guys got to the mansion Andreno was dead, nothing they could do for him, but Pettijohn was still alive. Just barely. He's in surgery now. The doctors give him a 60 percent chance of making it. If he pulls through, he might be willing to help in the search for Heinz."

Burkhart's gaze landed squarely on Joe. "So, I need a theory, a motive for these shootings. I can't say these guys, Luka and Shell, turned on each other. Ballistics isn't going to support that theory."

Joe ran a hand over his unshaven chin and thought. "Why not say, Marcus wanted them dead. This organization is cutthroat. Rule of thumb, never leave a trail and damn sure never leave witnesses. Marcus could've had a sniper hidden on the grounds. The sniper takes out Luka and Shell after they finish off Mr. X and Frank. Marcus gets what he wants – no witnesses."

Burkhart nodded. "Sounds reasonable. I like it."

* * *

><p>Joe took a cab to the diner where he'd left the rent-a-wreck truck. Burkhart's parting words echoed in his ears. <em>You need to rein in your trigger finger. I won't always be able to bail you out.<em>

Joe drove the truck to the office and took a shower and shaved. He thought about taking a nap, but was too wound up. He'd lived life on the edge for two days and it was hard to come down from the high. It took time to work through the experience. Desensitize himself. He couldn't just crash. After a battle he always felt the urge to connect with people, to mingle and drink, to joke and laugh, to prove he was still human, still normal.

He wanted company. He wanted – needed – to feel someone soft and warm in his arms.

He saw the bottle of wine on the counter and grabbed it. A minute later, he knocked on her door.

"Joe!" Vanessa flung her arms around his neck and hugged him like a long lost relative.

"Hey." He wrapped an arm around her and held up the bottle. "I brought wine."

She gave him a squeeze and stepped back. Her smile was bewitching. Had she always looked this beautiful? This inviting? His desire for her was almost insatiable.

She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. Her quick glance at the alley didn't register with him. He was thinking about her height – five feet eight – the perfect kissing height for a guy six feet tall.

She spoke over her shoulder as she took two wine glasses out of a cupboard. "I missed you. I've been worried. No one's been at the office. I called a few times."

He set the wine on the table. "We've been on a stakeout. Things got a little ugly. Frank's in the hospital. But he's fine now. He'll be home in a couple of hours."

She handed him a corkscrew and frowned. "But you're okay?"

"Never better. No new wounds. Same old stitches in my palm and stomach." He showed her his freshly bandaged hand.

The corners of her eyes crinkled. Fear and doubt clouded her face.

Joe wrapped her in his arms and held her tight, felt her heart beating. "You okay?" He felt her nod against his shoulder.

"I've just been worried. I thought maybe you didn't want to see me again."

He smoothed back a strand of hair and peered into her pale blue eyes. "Nothing could be farther from the truth. I've missed you. Really missed you."

They sat on the couch, drank the wine, and talked of nothing important. Meaningless words filled the empty space between and inside them. He wondered if he could open up to her, be honest and let her see inside his heart, see the grief and sorrow that resided there. If he did let her in, then what? Would she accept him? Or turn away in fear and disgust?

She laid a hand on his thigh and leaned her head on his shoulder. He felt the connection, a strong bond, the sudden spark of two souls meeting. Her hand was soft and warm. Her touch moved him, touched a wound deep in his heart. No woman's touch had moved him like this, not since Iola. He wasn't trying to kid himself either. He and Iola had been nineteen – mere kids – each other's first. That had made the experience more memorable. He guessed the first time was always special for a man and a woman – something you never forgot.

Her hand moved to his shirt and her fingers trailed down the buttons on the front. "Those stitches. The ones on your stomach. Could I see them?"

He drew in a ragged breath. "Mmm, sure."

She undid the top button. And the next. The scent of her shampoo and the smell of her skin muddled his mind. What had they been talking about? The shirt fell open and her fingertips lightly traced the edges of the stitches.

He felt the pressure building in his southern region and shifted on the couch. "Everything okay?" he rasped.

She lifted her head and looked at him. "Everything's fine."

"Good." He closed his eyes and kissed her. A long, insane kiss.

Then she took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. "I'm on the pill," she said as she opened the door.

He thought he should question that, the bit about the pill, but his brain wasn't the part leading him into the bedroom. The other part was and it rarely questioned women or their moods.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yay, another chapter and it's a little longer. BTW, we're getting close to the end. About five or more chapters to go._

_Also, a great, big thank you to all who have left a review. :)_


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Midnight. The witching hour. The time when evil things came to light or when snipers came out to roost. Joe put a hand to the dining room window, spread the blinds with his fingers, and scanned the dark alley below. Anyone down there?

Vanessa was sleeping and Joe didn't want to disturb her, didn't want her to know he was looking for a sniper. A sniper with a red-dot scope.

Who the hell shows up with a red-dot scope? Only the baddest of the bad. Or fools who thought they were the baddest of the bad.

Aw, and there he was in the exact spot where Frank had seen him two nights ago. The fool didn't even vary his location. Amateur.

But who was he? Frank and Joe had taken out all the big players. Luka was dead. Mr. X was dead. Wade was in the hospital, soon to be jail. Same for Boris. Marcus was in jail and not likely to get out for a long time. Of course, even behind bars he still wielded a lot of power. This sniper could be working for Marcus. Maybe he hadn't gotten the memo: _the boss is in jail. Game's over. Time to go home._

Joe stepped away from the window. Did Frank know the sniper was out there tonight? Probably not. Frank, hopefully, was in bed resting and hopefully, with Nancy next to him.

Another possibility tumbled around in Joe's head, another possibility for the sniper. Joe crept into the bedroom and dug his cell phone out of his pants pocket.

In the dining room, he leaned a hip against the table, and checked his messages. One e-mail from a buddy in New York. The e-mail Joe had been waiting for and it confirmed his suspicions. He went to the window and checked the alley. Yep, sniper-dude was still there. Had to be cold out there. Uncomfortable hunched over that rifle and scope. Tedious work standing watch all night. And what about the day? Doing that, too? Joe had to give the guy credit for persistence. But that was all Joe would give him.

Joe got a drink of water and returned to the bedroom. He slipped beneath the covers and spooned Vanessa. God, she was warm. His arm went around her waist and he pressed his face into her hair.

She snuggled into the curve of his body. In a sleep-heavy voice, she mumbled, "I missed you."

"Sorry, had to go to the bathroom." He kissed her hair and thought about the man in the alley. Who was he and what did he want?

# # # #

Monday morning things were crazy at the Endeavor Office. Glass guys were there installing the new window. It was big and awkward and took a team of men to carry it, then position it, and get it into place.

Joe watched the process with detachment. Frank was upstairs resting. Joe had scoffed at Frank's plan of catching up on office paperwork. He was going to do paperwork with only one eye?

"You look like a train wreck, bro. You need to rest," Joe had said.

Thirty minutes later when Joe checked, Frank was resting on the couch. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching it.

"Looks like you took my advice," Joe said.

"Vision's still blurry and my head hurts whenever I lean over."

"See, told you so," Joe said.

Nancy arrived at ten-thirty and Joe gladly handed over the reins. "Security guys will be here in an hour to install the alarms and monitors. Frank's upstairs sleeping and I'm heading out to buy a new truck. Unless you need me to stay."

"No, I'm fine." Nancy's eyes swept over the demolished kitchen counter. "I left a bottle of wine here yesterday. Have any idea where it went?"

A sheepish grin lifted the corners of Joe's mouth. "Sorry, Vanessa and I drank it last night. I'll get you another bottle while I'm out."

Nancy smiled. "No problem. I'm glad to hear things are good between you two."

"Yeah, she's giving me a ride to the car dealer and we're having lunch afterwards to celebrate my new purchase."

"You can celebrate the end of the Romanoff case, too. Detective Burkhart called me this morning. They found Heinz' body on the mansion grounds. Burkhart said it looked like Heinz' died from a broken neck. He also said Marcus' arrest has thrown the organization into chaos. Word on the street is, the Mexicans are moving in. They've waited five years for retaliation and they're not wasting any time. Local drug dealers say hits have been ordered on most of Marcus' lower level leaders. Burkhart put Wade and Shell under protective custody and is moving them to a secure location."

Joe lifted an eyebrow. "So, basically we've traded one set of thugs for another."

Nancy ran a hand through her hair and ruffled it. "Yeah. I called Detective Cutter and brought him up to speed on the case. He's putting Boris under protective custody just to be safe." She saw the look on Joe's face. "What? What wrong?"

"The sniper. He's back. Or maybe he never left." The way Joe said it sent a chill down Nancy's spine. "I saw him last night. Around midnight. In the alley, in the same place Frank saw him."

Nancy slumped against her desk. "This is not good. I thought the sniper was Luka or Shell. Or that Heinz guy. I thought we'd gotten rid of him."

Joe blew out a breath. "Yeah, me, too. Guess we were wrong."

Nancy crossed her arms and cocked her head. "Now what? Should I call Burkhart or Cutter?"

"No, not yet. I'm working on a theory. I have a hunch this sniper isn't part of the case."

Nancy frowned and lines spread across her forehead. "If he's not part of the case then what's he part of?"

"Another case I'm working on. Give me two days. If I don't have an answer by then, then we'll call Burkhart or Cutter." Joe smiled. "I'm sure Cutter would love to hear from us. It's been a while."

# # # #

Joe entered the _Farmer's Insurance_ office and Vanessa handed him a check for a new truck. Aunt Muriel graciously allowed the use of her vehicle once again. Joe thanked her and promised this would be the last time.

Two hours later Joe and Vanessa sat in a small café. Joe's truck was visible through the window. He lifted a glass of iced tea. "To my new truck."

Vanessa gave a faint smile and clinked her glass to his.

Joe set his glass on the table. "You've been quiet today. Care to talk about it?"

"Is it that obvious?"

Joe laid a hand on Vanessa's. "This isn't about last night, is it?"

"No." She was quick with the answer.

He ran his thumb lightly over her knuckles. "Then what?"

She studied their hands, his on top of hers. "My ex-husband. He's been calling. He wants to see me. I've told him no. I told him, it's over, he needs to move on and leave me alone." She shook her head and smirked. "I almost said, I'll call the police. I'm sure he would've found that laughable. He _is_ the police."

"Not here. Here, he has no authority."

"True. But I know how it is. They shield their own. He taught me that." Her voice was bitter. "That's why I moved here. To get away. I thought it was far enough and he didn't know about Aunt Muriel. I should've known he would find me. He has resources. Lots of them. He can track me anywhere." She lowered her head and her hair fell forward. "I'm sorry I got you into this."

He reached out and swept her hair behind her ear. "You didn't get me into anything. I'm a big boy. I go where I want and get into what I want. We're in this together. I can help you. We'll get a restraining order."

"I don't know." She rubbed her arms as if she was cold. "You don't know Brice. He .. he can be violent."

Joe's face hardened. Vanessa saw the sensitive, fun-loving man she'd come to know slip away. A warrior, ready to fight, rose to the surface. "I'll protect you."

# # # #

Joe leaned through the open car window and kissed Vanessa good-bye. "Seriously, if he calls you again, tell me."

Vanessa had thought – hoped – they'd put this discussion behind them at lunch. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands and let out a heavy sigh. "I don't want you involved in this. It's my problem. I'll take care of it."

Joe worked his tongue around his mouth. "I'd like to think of it as our problem."

Vanessa looked at him. The afternoon sun made her squint. "I wish you'd let it drop."

"I know. I can't."

She stared at the steering wheel. "I'll let you know if he calls."

"Thanks." Joe stepped away from the car and watched her drive out of the parking lot.

It wasn't the way he had hoped lunch would end. Their relationship felt strained, he was on edge, and she looked defeated. Based on their short track record, he and Vanessa didn't do well at lunches. Next time he'd skip lunch and go straight to dinner. The last dinner date had turned out fine. Hell, skip dinner and go with a bottle of wine. That had turned out the best so far.

He got the call as soon as he climbed into his truck. Hadn't even put the key in the ignition. He jerked his phone out of his pocket. Unknown caller. Probably one of those disposable cell phones.

Joe lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello."

"You were kissing my wife."

Joe hunched and peered through the windshield, looked around the parking lot. "I was kissing my girlfriend, pal."

"Stay the hell away from Vanessa."

Joe started checking cars. A family getting out of their car. A couple, hand in hand, getting into their car. He checked the entrances to the café. "Where you at, pal?"

"I'm not your pal. Take my advice and stay away from my wife."

"Tell me to my face. Coward." Joe scanned the parking lot, the street, the sidewalks. He looked higher, at rooftops and balconies. Where was this guy?

"You really need to learn to shut the fuck up."

"So I've heard. But you're just some clown calling me on a disposable phone telling me to leave his wife alone. That makes you a coward and I don't listen to cowards."

A car pulled into the parking lot. Joe's eyes sharpened into icy blue slits. He watched the car park, watched it slide slow and easy into a parking slot. The doors opened and three women got out.

The silence on the other end of the cell phone grew, stretched to an uncomfortable length. "You there, pal? Or are you busy putting on your clown suit? You got some kid's birthday party to get to?"

"Very funny. You wanna do this? We'll do it. Meet me at eight in the alley behind the Bullpen Bar. You know the place?"

"Yeah. I know it. I'll be there." Joe didn't know where Brice was at this precise moment, but he sure as hell knew where Brice would be at eight.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Joe parked in the Bullpen's parking lot and locked his truck. His new truck, not even a day old. He scanned the parking lot, saw nothing suspicious, and headed to the alley.

It was five till eight. Technically Joe was early, but he was positive Brice was already here and waiting.

A lone lamppost lit the alley. Brice leaned against it with his arms crossed, looked calm, cool, and relaxed in the circle of light.

Joe figured Brice to be about the same height and age as himself, maybe a year or two older, certainly not more.

Joe's hands fisted, got ready. They knew where this meeting was going long before his brain did.

Brice, with a cocky attitude, eyed Joe. "So, you're the asshole Vanessa's screwing."

Joe shrugged off the allegation. He wasn't about to confirm, or deny, Brice's accusation. Silence seemed the best response. Funny though, how a man knew when his woman had been with another man. Must be a primitive instinct or something.

Brice pushed off the lamppost. "Can't say she's got much taste .. or standards."

Joe jutted his chin at Brice. "That's not saying much for yourself or your ex-wife."

Brain jerked his head sideways. "Yeah, well, call me crass, but I don't have many good things to say about Vanessa. She walked out on me without so much as a good-bye. No note, no phone call, no nothing. She ran away like a coward. Couldn't tell me to my face. Never gave us a chance to work things out. She just ran off and filed for divorce. I got the papers in the mail. Pretty damn cowardly if you ask me."

Brice locked eyes with Joe. Those were the meanest eyes Joe had ever seen. _He can be violent_.

Joe said, "We both know why Vanessa left and she's not the one who's a coward. You are. Let's be straight with each other. Only a coward beats a woman."

Brice's face darkened and he lowered his head, blew out a derisive snort. "She tell you that?"

Joe licked his lips. "No. She's been quiet about her past. Probably too embarrassed by it. But being a private eye I can find things out and with your past, it wasn't hard. I have a couple of friends in New York. People talk and your record speaks for its self."

"Private eye, huh?" Brice eyed Joe with palpable distain. "You're nothing but a wannabe, a wannabe detective. Can't cut it in the real world, or on a real police force, so you become a private eye."

Joe shook his head like he was disappointed. "You haven't done your homework hot-shot police detective. I was an army MP for seven years. Did two tours in Afghanistan. I'd call that 'real world.' A lot realer than yours." Joe lifted his chin and the line of his jaw hardened. His look said_, the ball's in your court, Hot-Shot_.

Brice took the ball, metaphorically, and ran with it. A nasty sneer made an angry slash across his mouth. "Okay punk, show me what a _wannabe_ private eye can do, other than steal another man's wife."

Brice shoved Joe in the right shoulder backing him up a step.

Joe planted his feet. "I didn't steal your wife and you know it. You drove her away all by yourself. And in case you haven't gotten the message, she wants no part of you anymore. So, this is me, politely telling you, to stay the hell away from Vanessa."

"Telling me what to do, _Wannabe_?" Brice shoved Joe again, same shoulder, same result.

Joe rubbed his shoulder with his good right hand. "You're going to have to stop doing that."

"Still trying to tell me what to do, huh? _Wannabe_." This time Brice shoved Joe two-handed, both shoulders.

Joe stumbled back, caught himself, and drew a breath. Did he really want to do what he was about to do? He still had stitches in his left hand and in his stomach. But Brice was pushing hard, begging for a fight, intent on taking down the man who was with _his _woman now.

Brice fisted his hands and stepped to the left getting ready to make his move. Unthinking, Joe moved to the right, pure reaction, his muscles had a mind of their own. Brice did the predictable thing, stepped in with a big roundhouse punch. Not the smartest move. The roundhouse has a long trajectory. Joe saw the fist coming, deflected it with his left forearm and landed a sharp jab to Brice's stomach with his right fist. Joe pulled back on the jab at the last second. Dumb move. He still wasn't one hundred percent committed to this fight, some part of him thought he could avoid it – _should_ avoid it.

_I don't want you involved in this. It's my problem. I'll take care of it._

Brice launched a right hook at Joe's chin. Joe saw it coming and turned. The fist caught him on the left side of the jaw and staggered him. Damn, that hurt like hell.

Brice followed with a body shot. Body shots are smart. They hurt and make an opponent lower his defenses. The blow plowed into Joe's kidney. Pain exploded on his right side and radiated out like a tidal wave.

Now, Joe was mad. Now, he was in this fight. In it, to win it. He poured all his anger, and power, into a straight right aimed at Brice's face. Joe was going with his power punch, a knockout blow. Nothing says I'm mad like a fist to the face.

Brice turned his head in the nick of time and Joe's fist connected with the side of Brice's face instead of his nose. Still, it was a good, solid blow and Joe felt the impact reverberate up his arm.

Brice stumbled back and fell. Joe took a step forward and saw a bloody gash next to Brice's left eye. Brice laid on the pavement and groaned. Finally, his head cleared and he rolled onto his stomach, got on his hands and knees.

Joe inched back, getting ready for his next move. He ignored his throbbing hand. His knuckles felt like he'd slammed them into a brick wall. Nothing he could do about it.

Brice, on his knees, braced himself with one hand on the ground. He looked up. "Not bad, Wannabe. She really worth it? Worth fighting for?"

Joe's eyes narrowed. "You tell me Hot-Shot, you started it. But I sure as hell don't mind finishing it."

Brice got to his feet and stood, none too steady. "Think you're that good, huh?"

Joe tried to be reasonable. "I say, we call it a day. End this now. This fight's over. We walk away and go our separate ways."

"Giving up?" Brice swayed.

"Trying to be smart and stay healthy." Joe needed to play it smart. He'd been caught off guard twice and had the pain to prove it. He'd come up short on his power-punch and couldn't afford another blow to the body or head. Besides, bare knuckles fighting was dumb. Good way to break a hand. And as it stood, Joe was down a hand. His right hand throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch. He wouldn't be throwing anymore punches with it.

Brice wiped blood from his face, looked at it, and wiped his hand on his pants. "This ain't over till I say it's over. You hear me, Wannabe?"

Joe shrugged and watched his opponent, waited for him to telegraph his next move. Brice did. His eyes darted to something over Joe's right shoulder. Joe didn't turn, just hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "You got a buddy back there?"

"Yep," came a voice from behind.

Joe turned slightly, kept himself between the two men. The new guy approached from the right. Brice stood to Joe's left. Joe glanced from one man to the other. "Two against one. Hardly seems fair," Joe said.

The new guy loomed large. Joe figured him for six-three and close to two-hundred-forty pounds. The guy had a military crew-cut and appeared to be in his early thirties. He looked like he'd been a gym rat at one time, but had let himself go as of late. Still, a force to be reckoned with.

"No fight's ever fair," the new guy said. "Brice and I been partners for years." He smiled, revealed a yellow set of teeth that reminded Joe of a wolf. "We been in lots of fights and never lost one yet."

Adrenaline charged Joe's body. "Well, that's about to change."

The new guy pulled out an ASP tactical baton and a wicked smile lit up his face. He slapped the baton in the palm of his hand and it extended to a lethal 16 inches.

A weapon. Well now, that changed things. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Joe decided.

The arm with the baton went back in a big sweeping movement, the beginning of a backswing.

The minute Joe saw the baton his mind was made up. No choice really. He had to take the guy out of the fight. It was suicide, plain and simple, if he didn't.

Joe transferred his weight to his left foot and brought his right foot up at the same time the guy's wrist snapped bringing the baton forward, toward Joe's head.

The baton never connected. Joe drove his right foot through the guy's knee shattering the kneecap, dislocating the joint, and tearing the tendons. A howl, like that of a wounded animal, ripped from the guy's throat as he dropped to the ground. The baton clattered on the pavement. The guy writhed and moaned. He was out of the fight for good.

Joe knew Brice would have hung back while his partner attacked. Now, Brice would be on the move. He would want revenge, want to take down the man who had just put his partner in the hospital for a long, long time. Brice needed to settle the score, get the man who'd probably destroyed his partner's future and crippled him for life.

Joe spun to his left. Brice came at him hard, fists flying. Joe blocked the blows with his forearms, didn't retaliate. Best to let Brice waste his strength and energy. Exhausted, Brice stepped back and sucked in an angry breath. And that's when Joe attacked, three lightning fast, blistering elbow blows – left elbow, right elbow, left. An impressive display of power and force. Joe's left elbow slammed into Brice's chin, the right smashed into the bloody gash by Brice's eye, and his left came in for a second shot, straight into Brice's nose. Joe heard the sickening crunch of cartilage and saw blood spurt.

Brice's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Straight down and out like a house of cards. This time, he wasn't getting get up, not without help. This time, an ambulance crew would be scraping him off the sidewalk.

Joe melted into the shadows and called 911. The wail of sirens brought patrons out of the Bullpen Bar. Joe joined the gathering crowd. Just another guy wondering what all the commotion was. Brice and his buddy were strapped onto stretchers and loaded into an ambulance.

Joe turned and walked to his truck. His new truck. Not even a day old.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Frank lay on the couch, his head on a pillow, the pillow on Nancy's lap. Dinner had been soup and mashed potatoes, the only things he could eat. The pain was worse today and he relied on the pain meds more than he would admit.

The TV was on, the only light in the room. Blue and gray shadows danced on the walls. Nancy watched a movie, something she'd brought tonight, and held an icepack to Frank's face. She was diligent about the icepack. Twenty minutes every hour. Frank, for his part, rested and enjoyed having Nancy there, taking care of him. Too bad he wasn't in better shape. If he was, they wouldn't be in the living room, they'd be in the bedroom. Okay, maybe he was being a tad presumptuous. But a man, especially a man in his condition, was allowed his dreams.

"Time's up," Nancy said and gently removed the icepack.

Frank lifted his head and Nancy scooted off the couch, headed to the refrigerator with the icepack. They had been through this routine a few times now.

Downstairs, the office door opened and Joe trudged up the stairs. "Damn, it's dark in here."

Nancy turned, icepack in hand. "We're watching a movie."

Frank sat up. He wanted to say, you're watching, I'm resting, but what was the point? That wouldn't win him any brownie points. He switched on a lamp.

"My God." Nancy stared, open-mouthed, at Joe. "What happened to you? Your face?"

Joe motioned with his fingers. "I'll take the icepack."

Nancy handed it over. "Looks like you were in a fight."

Joe sat in a chair, leaned his head back, and pressed the icepack to the side of his face. "I found the sniper. We don't need to worry about him anymore."

Worry lines creased Nancy's forehead. She spoke slow and soft, "Did you kill him?"

"No. Hell no."

Nancy sat on the arm of the couch. "How'd you find him? You should've called me. I would've gone with you."

Joe closed his eyes. "He found me. Called me actually and set up a meeting."

"You met him alone?" this from Frank.

"No, there were three of us. Two of them and one of me." Joe smiled, but the joke fell flat. "Last I saw, he and his partner were being loaded into an ambulance. They should be at the hospital by now."

Nancy came over and lifted the edge of the icepack. Her head drew back and she grimaced.

"Looks worse than it is." Joe pushed the icepack against his face and shrugged. "The guy got in one good punch."

"Only one?" Frank said.

"Okay, two."

Joe leaned forward and told Frank and Nancy the full story. Told them about Vanessa and her divorce. Told them about Brice and his dirty tactics in the New York police department. Told them about tonight's attack, how Brice had thrown the first punch, and how Brice and his partner had ganged up on him.

"But I sure as hell finished the fight for them." Joe pushed off the chair and handed Nancy the icepack. "And now, I'm taking a long hot shower and going to bed."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yes, I know, super short. At least you know I'm alive and this story will be finished. ;) Two more chapters and then we're done._

_A special shout-out to beachgirlsrule, guest, and max2013 for their reviews on the last chapter. :)_


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Tuesday morning, more organized chaos in the office. The remodelers were there, putting the place back together. New kitchen counter. New cabinets. New ceiling tiles and in some spots new drywall. In other spots, brick was being replaced. All in all, a long, noisy process.

The new window looked great though.

Joe stood in the alley and phoned Vanessa again. The third try at communication. She had not responded to his earlier phone call or text message. Fear built in his heart. He told himself he was jumping the gun, jumping to conclusions. Just because she hadn't answered didn't mean she was writing him off. This was a work day, the insurance office could be busy. It hadn't been busy yesterday, or any day since the Endeavor had opened. Joe had never seen more than two people in the insurance office at any given time. But hey, today could be different. The office could be swamped. People could be standing in line, waiting to be helped.

The fear grew and tightened his chest. She didn't want to see him. Why? Last night? Did she even know about that? Joe had to see her, had to hear from her own lips what was going on.

God, he hoped he wasn't jumping to conclusions.

He waited until late afternoon, until he saw Muriel and Henry Boggs leave. Joe was outside washing the new window. An excuse to be out front, to be in position to see who went in and out of _Framer's Insurance_.

Childish really. Any other time, Joe would never have washed that window, would never have volunteered. But today, well today, he was desperate.

Henry stood outside Framer's door. "Now you're sure you'll be fine?"

Vanessa's voice from within, "Yes, Uncle Henry. You and Aunt Muriel go on. Have a nice trip. I can manage the office for a few days without you. If anything comes up, I'll call."

Muriel hooked her husband by the arm. "She'll be fine, Henry. Let's enjoy this time off. We haven't had a vacation in years." The smile she gave her husband melted Joe's heart. If Vanessa ever looked at him like that, he would do anything she said, no questions asked.

The smile worked on Henry, as it would have worked on Joe, and the couple walked, arm in arm, to their car. Good for them, Joe thought and gave the window one last wipe. He gathered up the pail of soapy water, the rags – wet and dry – and hurried inside. A change of clothes, a quick face wash, and he was on his way, up the back steps leading to the loft apartment above _Farmer's Insurance_.

He knocked at the door. Timid. Unsure. So unlike him. This woman, Vanessa, had gotten to him, gotten under his skin.

Seconds passed and he grew more unsure. He had turned to leave when the door opened.

She stood there, angry, arms crossed. "Brice called me this morning. He told me what you did." She was shaking, her lower lip quivered. "Greg may never walk again. My God, Joe. My God. What did you do?"

He reached for her and she backed away. "No! Don't touch me. I can't believe you did this. I told you to stay out of it. It was my problem."

"Please, give me a chance to explain."

"No. Go." She covered her face with her hands and turned. "Just go."

He didn't plea. Didn't argue or beg. Her decision seemed final. There was nothing left to say.

The door closed in his face and he turned away, moved slowly, his heart heavy, pounding in his chest. It was hard to breathe, to see the steps. He clung to the railing, used it to support his weight as he descended.

The remodelers were gone, the office quiet when he entered. Nancy was at her desk, catching up on paperwork. She looked up. "Frank's taking a shower, we're going to _Ragazzi's_ for dinner. You and Vanessa could join us." Then she got a look at his face. "Joe, what happened? You look like someone died."

He slumped on the long sofa and stared at the floor. "Maybe they did."

Nancy came over and sat beside him, put a hand on his arm. "Hey, it's me. What happened?"

"Vanessa. She's mad … upset about last night. She wouldn't let me explain. Just told me to go."

Nancy rubbed his arm. "You need to go back. Try again."

Joe lifted his head. "Are you crazy? Didn't you hear what I said? She doesn't want to see me."

"It was a reflex reaction. It was her anger talking. She's had time to think about it now and I'm willing to bet, she's up there wishing she hadn't been so quick to send you away."

Joe snorted. "Then she can call me."

"Pride, Joe. Pride may keep her from calling. It's hard to admit when you're wrong. My advice, don't give her a chance to think about it too much. Go back, try again. What have you got to lose?"

His pride? It hardly mattered at this point and as Nancy said, it was hard to admit when you were wrong, to accept your mistakes. Maybe he shouldn't have met Brice in that alley. Maybe things were would be okay now. No, Brice was never going to let it go. The fight was inevitable and Vanessa had to understand that. Joe had to make her understand that.

He pushed to his feet. "Drew, if this doesn't work …"

Nancy took him by the arm and walked him to the door. "Don't think about it too much. Go with your gut. It knows what's best. What's your gut telling you?"

He put a hand on the door frame. "It wants to see Vanessa."

"Then go. Go see, Vanessa." Nancy opened the door and waved him out. "One last thing, too much thinking leads to indecision and indecision leads to stagnation. A stagnant relationship just sits there. It isn't going forwards or backwards." She let out a small sigh. "Unfortunately, I speak from experience. I don't want to see that happen to you and Vanessa."

Joe stared at Nancy for a moment and then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks."

He was back at the door. He rapped lightly. "Vanessa, it's, me. Joe."

"Go away." She was there, right on the other side of the door. Had she stood there the whole time he was gone? Not that he'd been gone for long.

He put a hand to the door and pressed his forehead against it. "We need to talk."

Silence.

"Please," Joe said, "I don't want to leave things like this. You didn't give me a chance to explain. I deserve that much."

A long pause. Should he go or stay? _Too much thinking_.

The sound of the deadbolt. "It's unlocked."

He turned the knob and opened the door. She was sitting on the couch, staring into space. A bottle of wine sat on the coffee table. He lowered himself next to her. Their thighs touched. Their shoulders and arms touched. She didn't move, just stared straight ahead.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes. He peered into the past and felt a distant pain, felt the agony of being bereft, of having someone taken so suddenly and unjustly. A young woman with large, dark eyes peered back at him.

"She was nineteen," he said. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Guilt lay heavy in his voice.

Vanessa turned. "I'm … I'm sorry." She laid a hand on his.

In his mind's eye, Iola turned to him. A gentle breeze ruffled her dark hair. Her low, sweet voice called to him from an impossible distance. He heard her voice, but could not decipher the words.

"I loved her," he said in a choked whisper. Thinking about her brought her death back, full-force. Tears welled. "It should've been me. It was supposed to be me." It took all his energy to push out the words.

Vanessa hugged him, locked him in her arms. "I'm so sorry."

He didn't think she would ever let him go. And that was fine. Better than fine.

Later, they talked. Really talked. Opened up their hearts and minds to each other. Theirs pasts no longer held as much significance. Their pasts had made them who they were, shaped and molded them. Now it was time to move forward. Time to explore the future.

Later still, they shared the wine and a pizza. An old superhero movie came on TV and they watched it. Laughed at the silliness of super powers. They pulled a blanket over them and snuggled on the couch, her head on his chest, and his arm around her.

He spent the night and they slept, wrapped in each other's arms. Her sleepy words before drifting off, "Joe, you're my hero."

He fell asleep, the smile still on his face.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, these last few chapters have been Joe-centric. That had not been my original intention. However, I have learned from this story that it is hard to juggle three, (and sometimes four), main characters and give each the time and depth they need. That is why my subsequent stories are mostly first person POVs centered on one main character. This bouncing back and forth between F, J, and sometimes N and V has been a little hard. There's so much I want to relate about each character, but I worry that too much backstory bogs down the main story._

_Oh well, live and learn. One more chapter to go. I'd like to extend a special thanks to Max2013 - she has been a steady and constant reviewer and I'm a proud member of her Evil Authors Guild. :) Also, thanks to guest. You might be the same person each time leaving a review and if so, I thank you for that. _


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

One week later Joe sat at his desk typing a report. He was alone in the office. Nancy and Frank were out looking at apartments. Something cheap, something close to the office. They were ready to take their relationship to the next level – moving in together. Joe hoped for his sake, and theirs, they found something. He wanted the upstairs loft apartment for himself. Maybe then, he and Vanessa could get that alone time they so desperately wanted .. needed.

The bell over the front door jingled and Vanessa entered the Endeavor. She walked over, placed her hands on Joe's desk, and leaned forward. "Greg gets out of the hospital today. Neither he or Brice are pressing charges against you."

Joe cocked his head and his eyes narrowed. "Of course not. He started the fight. He called me, asked me to meet him in that alley, and he threw the first punch. If anyone should be pressing charges, it should be me."

Vanessa straightened and crossed her arms. "I just thought you'd like to know that it's over. They're leaving tomorrow. I can't tell you what a relief that is." She drew in a deep breath. "To have him gone. Gone for good I hope."

Joe stood and came around the desk. "I hope so, too." He ran a hand over her shoulder and down her arm. "I'm here for you. You know that."

Vanessa studied his face for a second then smiled. "I do. Now tell me about this fancy party we've been invited to."

* * *

><p>Nancy and Frank arrived at the Hyatt Regency at seven p.m. on the dot. The Five Star Hotel was aglow. Lanterns, hooked on short poles, lit walkways. Miniature lights wrapped around tree trunks and branches lent a festive air to the evening. Tuxedoed doormen gave the affair elegance. Everything was choreographed and ran like a well-oiled machine. A smiling doorman greeted each formally dressed guest, checked their invitation, and then led them to a waiting elevator. Guests were then whisked to the top of the hotel, to the rooftop patio.<p>

This party, given by Prince Dimitri, was the talk of the town. No one had ever seen anything like it, not in the small town of River Heights. The guest list read like a who's who of River Heights and the surrounding area. Local dignitaries and anyone involved in the Romanoff case had been invited.

Detective Cutter, Detective Burkhart and his team, Nancy, Frank, Joe, and Vanessa. Other invitees included the mayor and the River Heights Chief of Police.

Newspaper reporters snapped photos from behind roped barricades. Some shouted questions hoping for a comment from arriving guests. No comments were given, but several guests graciously posed and smiled for the cameras.

Women's attire ran the gamut from gowns to business suits. Nancy wore a royal blue dress that played up her dark blue eyes. Frank, like every other man there, wore a suit.

Frank took Nancy by the arm as they waited their turn with a doorman. Frank leaned over and whispered in Nancy's ear. "Have I told you how beautiful you are tonight?"

The warmth of his breath on her ear and the scent of his aftershave sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. "Maybe once or twice." She smiled at him. "Have I told you how handsome you look?"

His lips brushed her cheek. "Yes, but you can keep telling me. It never gets old."

Her fingertips stroked his wounded cheek. The swelling was gone and most of the bruises. "Any pain?"

"I'm fine. Took pain meds before we left." He took her hand and kissed her fingers. "Remember, we're here to have fun and celebrate."

"You're right. Have you told Joe the good news? That we found an apartment?"

"No, didn't have a chance. Too busy getting ready. But I'm sure he'll be happy."

* * *

><p>The rooftop patio was a magical scene. Candles, lanterns, and mini-Christmas lights sparkled and glowed everywhere. Waiters with trays of champagne and wine cruised the crowd. Delicious aromas came from tables filled with food.<p>

It was an evening of smiles, happiness, and toasts. After dining, Prince Dimitri gave a short speech thanking those involved in the rescue of his sister. He also thanked the Endeavor Agency for keeping the Romanoff family heirlooms safe. In closing, he added two items of interest. "I state to you now that I plan to go forward with my father's dream of creating a country. I have already spoken to the Spanish government and they appear amiable to the idea. I have a meeting scheduled later this week with the new King Felipe and the Prime Minister."

Someone in the crowd proposed a toast. Glassed were thrust in the air to the cheers of, "Here, here!"

The crowd quieted and Dimitri continued, "My last piece of news is more personal. As many of you know, my family was betrayed by our cousin, Marcus Volk. He caused us much grief, but as we close the door on one family member we open the door to a new family member. Or perhaps, I should say, soon to be member." Dimitri turned and stretched an arm toward his sister. Yuri sat beside her. "My sister has accepted a marriage proposal. Our longtime friend and bodyguard, Yuri Pavenko, proposed to her last night. If I heard correctly, she said yes."

Natasha, blushing fiercely, nodded. She wiped her eyes as Yuri slipped an arm around her shoulders.

The crowd rose as one and toasted the happy couple. "To Yuri and Natasha!"

As the evening came to a close and guests were ushered to elevators, Nancy, Frank, Joe, and Vanessa were asked to stay. A doorman escorted them to Dimitri's hotel suite. This was a private and personal meeting, a chance for Dimitri, Natasha, and Yuri to individually express heartfelt thanks and to bid their new friends a fond farewell.

Natasha hugged each in turn; Nancy, Frank, Joe, and Vanessa. "You are all invited to the wedding next summer. Please say you will come."

Nancy said, "We'll keep our calendars clear. Frank and I will be there." She looked to Frank for confirmation. "Right?"

"Anything you say, hon." Frank smiled.

Vanessa nudged Joe in the arm. "I'll speak for both of us and say, yes."

Joe poked Vanessa with an elbow and a grin lit up his face. "We're not even living together and already she's answering for me."

"Us," Vanessa corrected. "For us. Remember we're stronger together."

Joe cocked his head and one eyebrow rose. "Using my own words against me. Smart."

Frank squeezed Joe's shoulder and said, "I'd hang on to this one if I were you."

Joe couldn't argue with that.

* * *

><p>The Endeavor was on the map. The team of Hardy and Drew had proved itself. The Romanoff case had garnered them admiration, friends, <em>and<em> enemies. Who would come calling next, friend or enemy? Only time would tell.

THE END

* * *

><p><em>AN: Finally, the story is complete. I want to thank everyone who left a review from the beginning to the end. I know it took a long, long time for me to complete this story. Real life tends to get in the way, especially when one works for a living._

_A special note to Guest: I agree with everything you said about Chapter 39. I do feel I rushed through some bits here at the end and didn't showcase Vanessa's reaction enough. I just felt I had too many characters to manage effectively and began to wonder "how much information is too much?" How much of this interaction between J and V do the readers want to see? I may have let the ball drop on them in my haste to finish the story._

_This story started as an attempt to see if I could write an action type thriller. It was a lofty goal and I learned a lot. My other stories now all have one or two main characters - not three or four - and they're quite different. One is a F and C story, the other a Ned/Nancy story. I wanted to write stories that were completely different from what is usually presented here. I have the beginnings of two other stories. One is Joe centered and the other is N/F with J on the side. I don't know when I'll post those. I have my hands full with two incomplete stories at the moment. ;)_

_Anyway, thank you ALL again for reading!_


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